Losing It
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: SPOILER ALERT! After Amber's death, Wilson can't bring himself to forgive...all he can think about is vengeance. House, on the other hand, is willing to do anything to earn his friend's forgiveness. This proves to be a recipe for disaster for both.
1. Chapter 1

Loss changes a person

Loss changes a person.

Wilson had seen his share of loss in his years as head of oncology at the hospital, one family after another passing through his doors with the news that there was nothing to be done to help their loved one – that they were going to lose them.

_At least_ they _had some warning…_

He glared down at his desk through his bitter tears, his pen going still in his hand when he could no longer see to write.

_At least they knew…had time to prepare…say goodbye. They didn't have her…have her _stolen _from them, in an instant, without any warning…they didn't…_

All at once his emotions overwhelmed him, and he felt as if he was going to be sick. His stomach roiled dangerously, as the tears filling his eyes slipped down his face to form wet gray drops on the paper in front of him. He dropped the pen, his hand rising to cover his face as he broke down again, one more breakdown in the midst of dozens since he had lost Amber.

_Since she was killed…taken away from me…by that stupid, unbelievably selfish…_

Wilson wiped angrily at his face with his handkerchief, struggling to pull himself together, abruptly halting his thoughts before they could go down the dangerous road they were about to take. He had made up his mind, the day Amber had died, standing in the doorway of the hospital room where his best friend lay in a coma.

When House had opened his eyes, stunned to see that Wilson was actually there at all, and looked up at him with that desperate mixture of pleading and sorrow and regret – Wilson knew in that moment.

He _couldn't_ forgive.

Amber's life was over because of this man – because of his irresponsibility and disregard for anyone but himself – and because of that, Wilson was through with him. He had done his best to be understanding and compassionate, for many years now, because of the close friendship they had shared – but all that was over.

He would not waste another thought on Gregory House.

The only problem was, from the moment he decided not to give any more thought to the man who had been his best friend…it seemed that Wilson could think of nothing and no one else. It hurt to much to think of Amber, to indulge in his memories of her. His job could only hold his attention for so long, too, before darker thoughts began to fill his mind, thoughts of the one responsible for the grief-filled nightmare his life had become.

Thoughts of justice for Amber.

Thoughts of revenge.

Thoughts that frightened him.

He pushed the thoughts out of his head and did his best to finish his work, so he could go home to another empty night in his empty apartment, with nothing for company but the television and whatever liquor he might have left in the cabinet – which at this point was rather limited. In the weeks since Amber's death, he had swiftly depleted a collection that had formerly been mostly for show.

Perhaps that had something to do with the massive headache that had been plaguing him all day.

The sound of his door swinging open sounded unbearably high-pitched and annoying, and Wilson glared up at whoever dared intrude upon his privacy, much more highly prized these days than ever before.

Suddenly, his headache was much worse.

He did not speak to the man who stood in the doorway, his head lowered, clutching his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white and trembling. House was staring at him, his mouth working as if he wanted to speak but could not find the words; a wide-eyed, trapped sort of expression was on his face, as if this was the very last place on earth he really wanted to be.

Wilson agreed completely with that sentiment.

House hovered in the doorway for a few seconds, half in, half out, and no doubt gaining no encouragement from the silent indignation in Wilson's piercing dark eyes as he stared up at him, the unspoken questions clear on his face.

_Why are you here? What right do you think you have to be here?_

After a few moments, House seemed to make his decision, visibly mustering his courage as he stepped into the office and firmly, deliberately closed the door, before turning again to face his former friend directly. He drew in a deep breath, and Wilson could see in his eyes what he was about to say – useless words House had no right to say, and Wilson had no desire to hear.

The oncologist deliberately redirected his attention to the paper on his desk, all but pretending that the other doctor was not even there, though he knew House well enough by now to be acutely aware of the discomfort his dismissal was causing.

_Good. He deserves it. And a lot worse._

"I…I know I don't have any right to ask you to…oh, I don't know, _look_ at me…" House paused, then sighed when Wilson did not look up at him. "Well, anyway…I have to say this. Even if you don't feel like listening…"

"Don't you dare tell me you're sorry." Wilson's voice was dangerously soft; his pen never faltered in its careful movements across the paper in front of him.

House was taken aback by the words, though they were not a complete surprise to him. He was quiet for a moment, frustrated, uncertain. He knew very well that "sorry" was nothing but a meaningless word to Wilson right now, in the midst of his grief, but he had no idea what else he could say, what he could possibly do to make right the terrible damage he had done to their friendship.

All he knew was that he had to do something, _anything, _to get his best friend back.

He had recovered very quickly from the coma, and Cuddy had made a point of checking in on him as often as her job would allow, making sure that he was doing all right – but he was quickly discovering that "all right" was a relative term. Physically, he was doing fine.

Emotionally – he was a wreck.

He could no longer talk to the one person he had trusted more than anyone else – or more accurately, at all. His best friend could not even look at him any more, hated him, blamed him for the devastating depression that was now consuming him. Wilson had lost the most important person in his life.

_Yeah, well…I know how you feel, Jimmy_.

Wilson's sharp words were almost enough to kill what little courage he had managed to muster. House turned toward the door with a heavy sigh, opening it again and taking a step out.

Then – he stopped.

He simply could not bring himself to walk out of Wilson's office, to leave the terrible tension unresolved between them. There had to be a way to make Wilson understand how sorry he was, to somehow earn his forgiveness – there just _had_ to be. Whether Wilson accepted his attempts, or shot him down without mercy, he had to try…because…

…_because I can't keep on going like this…I can't keep going without him…without_ anybody…

He closed the door again, turning to face Wilson once more.

Angrily, Wilson threw the pen down on the desk, glaring up at House warningly. "Get out. Of my office."

"Give me just a second, okay?" House's uncharacteristically soft voice held a pleading note as he stood in front of Wilson's desk, meeting his gaze only with an extreme force of will. It was difficult not to look away from the seething fury and resentment in the dark, expressive eyes he knew so well. "I know you don't want to hear 'sorry' from me – know it doesn't do a damn bit of good now – but you have to understand that I would do _anything_ to make this right…"

"You've done enough," Wilson snapped. "Get out."

"Wilson…_please_…" House's voice trembled with desperation. "Please…if there's anything I can do…anything it takes to somehow…somehow get you to forgive me…I'll do it. I just…I just can't…I need to do _something_…"

Wilson shook his head, disbelieving and disgusted, and suddenly House felt very stupid for his suggestion. Of course, there as nothing…of course, his words were meaningless…

"You actually think you can come in here and offer to…what? Do some kind of act of penance? And it'll make me magically forget that you killed the one person in this world that meant _everything_ to me?" Wilson's voice rose slightly with every word, and he slowly stood, his hands clenched into fists, braced against the top of his desk. "There is nothing you can do to fix that, House! This isn't some mystery you can figure out the answer to! You've ruined my life…like you ruin every life you come close enough to touch…and I…_hate_…you!"

House flinched at the word, clearly enunciated so as to leave no doubt as to how much Wilson meant it. He lowered his head, blinking back tears that, even now, he could not quite bring himself to allow Wilson to see. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper that he hardly recognized, tinged with anguish and desperation, as he asked the question that had been haunting his thoughts for the past few weeks.

"Are you…are you going to hate me _forever_?"

Wilson calmed slightly at that, a strange, cold smile coming over his face, and his soft, cruel voice when he spoke was so much worse than the yelling that preceded it.

"Kinda looking that way right now, House. Yeah."

House swallowed hard, his throat constricting, aching with the tears he struggled to hold back, as he nodded his heartbroken acceptance of Wilson's brutal words. "You just…you just have to know," he whispered into the painful stillness that had fallen in the room. "You have to know that if there's anything I could do…anything that could make it better…make you…feel…better…I'd…"

His eyes were down, and he was lost in his own tormenting thoughts, so he started when Wilson suddenly spoke, and he realized that the other doctor was no longer behind his desk, but standing right in front of him, one fist still braced on the desk, as if for support, but leaning in toward his face with fury blazing in his eyes.

"You want to know what would make me feel _better_ right now, House? 'Cause I _really _don't think you'd be so eager if you did."

House looked up, though he could hardly stand to, overwhelmingly intimidated by the unmasked rage and accusation he saw in his former friend's eyes, as well as his imposing nearness, mere inches in front of his face. "I said 'anything', Jimmy," he whispered. "I meant it."

"Did you." Wilson bit the words out sarcastically as he took a step forward, forcing House to take one backward, smiling in bitter satisfaction that the brash doctor, never concerned with propriety or respecting the space of others, was yielding to his advance. "Because you know what I'd like to do right now? You know what I think would give me just a few minutes peace of mind?"

As he spoke, he continued advancing on House, who stumbled a few awkward steps backward until his back was to the wall to the side of Wilson's desk. House was staring into his eyes now, searching, apprehensive. The older doctor said not a word, just shook his head in a silent question.

"If I could make you hurt, like I'm hurting right now…like…like _she_…"

Wilson's voice broke off abruptly, and he pressed a fist to his mouth in an attempt to stifle his rising sobs. After a moment, he managed to regain control, shaking his head in an attempt to evade his memories for long enough to finish his words. He glared at House again, violent anger in his eyes as he continued.

"I'd like to make you suffer," he whispered, his face inches from House's now, and the older man was breathing faster now, more than a little unsettled by Wilson's rage.

_Good…_

"I'd like to break you down and make you see how truly pathetic you are…tear down that self-centered ego that made you think you _deserved_ to call her for help, but were somehow too good to accept it! I'd like to tear you apart like you've torn apart everything that was ever important to me…show you what it feels like to be broken and feel like every part of you is falling apart." Wilson's voice was trembling violently, his face streaked with tears as he whispered, "You really think you can take that, House? You really think you're willing to do _whatever_ I need?"

House was silent, glancing downward for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Wilson's again, solemn and full of regret. His voice was quiet and even, and utterly sincere, when he finally voiced his simple response.

"I'll try."

Wilson's eyes widened in stunned disbelief for a moment, and his breath caught in his throat when House leaned back against the wall, slowly raising his hand and holding out his cane as if offering it to Wilson.

"Please," he whispered. "I'll do anything…let you do anything…" He paused, swallowing back a sob. "If you'll just forgive me."

Wilson was all set to dismiss the idea completely – to back off, leaving House alone by the wall and dismissing him, ordering him out of his office one more time. He knew the other man well enough by now to know that if he told him to leave now, he would almost certainly do it, accepting that he had tried his best, and his best had been rejected.

He also knew him well enough to know that he was dead serious.

If Wilson chose to do so, House would allow him to take the cane from his hand and beat him to the ground with it.

And the thought was horribly tempting.

A picture flashed in Wilson's mind, of Amber, in her dying moments…the terror in her eyes as she had put the pieces together as he gave them to her, and realized that there was no hope for her.

_She was so smart…of course she figured it out for herself…what took us hours to figure out…she knew it in seconds…she was so brilliant…so strong and beautiful…_

…_and he took her from me…he killed her…_

Red spots of rage dancing in his vision, Wilson snatched the cane from House's hand before he could stop himself, dropping it to the floor behind him before backhanding the other man with his fist, the blow slamming his head into the wall behind him.

"You killed her," he hissed the accusation. "You and your stupid, self-important belief that the entire world revolves around you and whatever crisis of the moment you happen to be having!" He punctuated the words with another blow of his fist, this one directed to House's stomach, and doubling him over with pain.

House did not make a sound, made no move to defend himself, as he dropped to his knees, unable to regain his balance on his weakened leg. Wilson delivered another blow to his face, followed by an indiscriminate kick that happened to land on House's right thigh.

Wilson noticed with a vague sense of shame through the rage that even then, House made no move to fight back or defend himself. In fact, the only move he made was to cover his own mouth with his arm, biting back the cry of agony induced by the vicious kick to the most sensitive part of his body. Apparently, he was more concerned with ensuring Wilson's privacy for the beating he was delivering, than he was with the beating itself.

Somehow, this knowledge only served to increase Wilson's anger, however, and he kicked his leg again with savage force, feeling a sense of twisted satisfaction when House's face contorted in agony, and he doubled over, his face resting on his knees as he struggled not to black out.

Wilson finally stopped, breathing heavily, staring down at his former friend with a vague sense of numbness stealing over his mind and body, as he tried to come to terms with what he had done. Not knowing what else to do, he reached down and caught hold of House's collar, hauling him to his feet against the wall. Once House was standing, Wilson turned back toward his desk with a weary sigh.

He had felt better for a few moments, while he was working out his rage on House's body…but now, all he felt was numb.

"Do you…do you feel better now?" House rasped, his voice hoarse with pain, his body still slightly bent as he struggled to deal with the pain his friend had inflicted. He hesitated before adding in a pitifully hopeful tone, "Can you…do you think you can…forgive me…now?"

The question infuriated Wilson, and he felt cold anger washing over him again.

_He doesn't even care what he did…all he cares about is getting back on my good side…as selfish as ever…_

"Not yet," he answered with a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "Maybe you should come back tomorrow and try again."

House stared up at him, blinking with a hurt, startled expression in his eyes. "Wilson…please…"

"Get out," Wilson snarled, turning back to face House and reaching down to pick up his cane.

He held the cane out, and House reached to take it – but just as he did, Wilson tossed it behind him, sending it skidding across the floor toward the other side of the room. House stared at it, and then back up at Wilson, stunned by the raw cruelty of the act. Wilson just shrugged at him as he returned to his desk, picking up his pen and continuing to work, as if House was not even in the room, and he had not just beaten him brutally.

House was utterly silent, watching him for a few moments, before he began the slow, painful struggle across the room to where his cane lay. The trip back to the door was easier, but not much, considering the pain he was in. At the door, he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder, and his words caught Wilson's attention in spite of himself, drawing the younger man's eyes up in surprise as House gave him a soft, ironic smile and murmured,

"See you tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

"Okay, so who'd you manage to piss off this time

"Okay, so who'd you manage to piss off this time?"

"Doesn't matter," House muttered, not quite meeting Cuddy's eyes as he sat down wearily in the chair across from her desk.

Cuddy frowned, troubled by the lack of any barbed comments being tossed in her direction, or even self-defense on House's part. His usual ever-present humor seemed to have gradually vanished over the weeks since Amber's death. Oh, sure, there were still the occasional sarcastic comments and such, but he rarely found the energy to mock her clothing choices anymore, and he was unusually unresisting about doing the things she asked of him around the hospital.

Now, sitting across from her, he seemed listless, weary, and she had noticed that his limp was alarmingly pronounced as he made his way across her office.

And his face was badly bruised.

"That…kinda looks like it matters, House," she pointed out, gesturing to his face. "Was it a patient? What did you say?"

She was slightly ashamed to realize that she was actually hopeful that perhaps House _had_ gotten into some kind of altercation with a patient. Before, she just hoped to get through one day _without _the kind of drama that House was so very good at provoking – but now, it would have been proof that he was still in there, somewhere, buried under the guilt and grief that seemed to be slowly crushing him.

"It's none of your business. Why did you call me in here, anyway?" House sounded a little irritable under her scrutiny, rolling his eyes as he gave her an impatient look.

_Well…it's a start, anyway…_

"Actually, it _is _my business," Cuddy argued, one perfectly shaped brow raised as she met his eyes. "Out of everyone in this hospital, more than anyone else, is is _my _business. If we're going to have a lawsuit because of something you said..." She paused, amending with a little half-shrug, "…or if we need to file one, because the patient was out of line…well, I need to know about it."

"It was nothing. It's over," House said shortly. "The patient didn't like my diagnosis of marital infidelity, and took it out on my face. That's all. But, since he _is _being unfaithful – I highly doubt he'll bring the incident up again. Of course, if you just _want _to look through all thirty-one of the files of the male patients I saw in the clinic today and see if you can figure out which one it is…" He gave her a ghost of his old smug grin, but it faded as quickly as it appeared, as he sighed, frustrated, and repeated, "Now…_why_ did you call me in here again?"

Cuddy was struck silent.

She knew why she had called him in here, knew what it was that she wanted to say.

_It wasn't your fault, you know. It was just an accident. He'll come around; he'll remember your friendship and miss you, and he'll come around again. Are you okay? If you need anything, I'm here for you._

But the nature of their barely acknowledged friendship made such words impossible to actually say to House, and Cuddy could not seem to make her mind function well enough to come up with alternative ways of saying them – ways that House would not immediately recognize and dismiss in disgust. The last thing he wanted was anyone's pity; and House had a way of mistaking genuine affectionate concern for pity.

"I…was just wondering how your latest case is coming along," she replied, well aware of how lame the attempt was. There was nothing all that unusual about House's latest case, at least as far as _his _cases usually went – no reason for her to seek him out to ask about it.

House immediately recognized her failed attempt.

His eyes narrowed as he rose from the chair, and Cuddy could not help but notice his wince as he pulled himself painfully up on his cane. "Fine," he replied with a curt nod. "Glad we had this little chat." Without another word, he turned and headed slowly toward the door.

Cuddy frowned, troubled as she once again noticed how much deeper his limp seemed to be today, how much pain he seemed to be in, and she wondered how many times the irate patient had struck him, and if the attack had been limited to his face. "Whatever you said or did," she remarked just as he reached the door, "It must have been terrible." She laughed softly, really just trying to ease the tension with a touch of their usual banter. "You probably deserved it."

House paused in the doorway, his head lowered, his back turned to her, surprising her with his softly spoken words.

"It was. I did."

Cuddy gasped in surprise, stunned to hear such an admission from House, and deeply troubled by the aching sorrow she heard in his voice. Her eyes widened as a terrible thought occurred to her – one she almost immediately tried to dismiss – _Couldn't be…there's no way he would ever let it go that far_ – but before she could say another word or attempt to address it – he was gone.

"You wanted to see me?" The soft knock on her office door nearly an hour later was followed by Wilson's head peering around the door.

She beckoned to him, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "What's up?" he asked, sounding calm and together for a change, and actually smiling as he took a seat in front of her desk, the same seat in which House had sat an hour earlier.

Cuddy drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a shaky sigh as she tried to think of the best way to phrase her questions, without drawing the anger that seemed so readily to rise to the surface in Wilson lately, anytime anyone so much as mentioned the name of his former best friend.

"Look…you may not be the person to ask right now, but…I know you worked in the clinic today, didn't you?" she began, her voice trembling slightly.

A slight frown of confusion creasing his brow, Wilson nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Well…Dr. House was just here a little while ago, and…well it seems he got in a bit of an altercation with a patient earlier this afternoon…"

It felt odd to her, adding the "Dr." title to the front of House's name, but since Amber's death, Wilson no longer seemed to think of the other doctor in personal terms. He was a part of the hospital's furniture, to be ignored whenever possible, and acknowledged only when it was absolutely necessary to do so – and the title just seemed to slip out, these days, whenever she was talking to Wilson about House.

Which was…well, almost never, lately.

Even as she spoke House's name, just as she had expected, Wilson's expression had darkened, his jaw automatically setting in a stubborn, unyielding line. Between Cuddy and House's original team, he had already had several attempts made to convince him to forgive his former friend; and by this point, Wilson automatically put his guard up the moment another person mentioned House.

She thought for a moment that she detected a flash of fear in the younger doctor's eyes, and barely allowed a shred of hope to surface that maybe, just _maybe_ it might bother him more than he wanted to admit to think that House had been hurt – but then it was gone, quickly masked by the same stone cold expression Wilson usually wore when thinking about House.

"Well, anyway…he was pretty badly beaten up. Claimed it was nothing, wanted me to just forget it. But…I was wondering if you might have seen anything, if it possibly happened while you were in the clinic, too," Cuddy finished, rushing to get out the rest of her explanation before Wilson could get the wrong idea of her motives, and think she had called him in here to try to convince him again to change his mind.

Wilson frowned thoughtfully, calmly considering as he appeared to be thinking back over his afternoon in the clinic; and when he answered in a cool, emotionless tone, Cuddy felt a shiver go down her spine at the utter lack of concern she heard in his voice.

"No, I didn't see anything strange – not that I was paying much attention to what he did or didn't do," Wilson shrugged carelessly. "If there was a fight or something, it must have happened in an exam room, because I didn't see it, and I didn't hear about it later."

Cuddy didn't mention the fact that Wilson would not have been likely to hear about it later, as everyone was too afraid to bring up House's name at all in his presence these days – everyone except crazy people like her, anyway.

"Is that it?" Wilson asked, sounding bored as he rose to his feet. "Can I go?"

Cuddy nodded, studying his face with a troubled frown as he turned and headed for the door. She warred with herself as he neared it, struggling against her instincts, her need to at least _try _to do something to get Wilson to think about the cruelty of his recent behavior.

_Don't say anything, don't do it, just let him go…_

"Wilson?"

Wilson turned to face her again, a polite question evident on his face, his brows raised expectantly.

_Damn it._

Against her better judgment, knowing that she shouldn't, but apparently unable to stop herself, Cuddy searched his eyes as she asked softly, "Doesn't it bother you? Even a little? He was your best friend, Wilson! Don't you even care to know how badly he was hurt? If he's even all right?"

Wilson was quiet for a moment, his polite smile fading, and after a moment's consideration, he answered in a quiet, cold voice, "The key word there is 'was', Dr. Cuddy. He's nothing to me anymore. And if he got hurt because of yet another pointless, stupid comment he made to some random patient – well, that just tells me that he hasn't let this change him, not at all. He's still the same self-centered, arrogant bastard he's always been – and I'm done with him."

"Maybe it should tell you something else," Cuddy argued, unable to keep the heated tremble from her voice as she rose to her feet, her hands resting on the top of her desk. "Like maybe that he's hurting, too! Wilson…it wasn't like he could have known that bus would crash. He couldn't have really stopped it, and he did everything he could to save her; don't you think you can at least _try _to forgive…?"

Wilson cut her off abruptly, snapping back at her, "No, I really can't. I gave and gave and gave in that stupid, pointless friendship, and all I got for it was losing the love of my life! He doesn't deserve another second of my time – let alone my forgiveness!"

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, before adding thoughtfully, "We don't forgive people because they deserve it, Wilson. We forgive them because they need it. If they deserved it – there'd be no need for forgiveness."

Wilson's eyes narrowed in bitter anger, but the momentarily flinch that preceded it told Cuddy that her words had struck home.

"I don't need you to preach at me," Wilson spat out the words, glaring at her. "Now, if you don't mind, can we stop discussing my personal life? I have a job to do."

Cuddy nodded, head lowered in defeat as she sat back down at her desk. She did not know what she had hoped to accomplish. After all, she and the others had all tried numerous times already to get Wilson to at least _talk _to House, at least try to see where he was coming from – all with no success.

With a heavy sigh, she reached for the phone and dialed the extension for medical records.

"Yes, this is Dr. Cuddy…yes…I need all of the records for any male patients Dr. House has seen in the clinic today…"

House sat on his sofa, staring morosely at the vial of Vicodin in his hand, tipping it up and down, over and over, listening to the soft rattle of the pills inside. Since nearly going to prison and losing his license over his addiction, he had stopped keeping large amounts of extra pills around his apartment, simply getting refills when he needed them from the hospital dispensary.

But…there were still a good twenty pills or so in the bottle he held in his hand.

Tonight, as he nursed his aching jaw and more-aching-than-usual leg, his thoughts took a darker turn – not that he had not contemplated it before, in the weeks since Wilson had disowned him. He had just not allowed himself to dwell on the idea so much – not until tonight. With his face bruised and his leg and heart bruised by his friend's betrayal, it was easy to think of the peaceful release that would come with simply ending it all.

_Twenty pills…combined with the whiskey…I'd never know what hit me…be gone before I could even think about…_

The knock at the door drew him out of his thoughts, and he glanced up at it in surprise. No one ever came to his door, not anymore.

_Well…that's not _quite_ true…_

Cuddy had come a couple of times in the last few weeks, but he had put her off as quickly as possible, not having any desire whatsoever to discuss what actually losing one's best friend really felt like.

"Go away," he muttered listlessly, returning his gaze to the bottle of pills, though he kept his voice quiet enough that she would not hear it. The easiest way to get her to go away faster would be to pretend that he was not there.

"House? It's me. I know you're there; open the door!"

His eyes widened as he stared back up at the door, disbelieving of the voice he had heard on the other side.

Wilson.

_Wilson?_

He rose unsteadily to his feet with the help of his cane, heading eagerly toward the door on legs shaking with weariness and anticipation. Was it possible that his friend was finally coming around, willing to at least try to address the issue between them, instead of simply writing him off as if their friendship had never mattered? House thought back to that afternoon, and the violent attack he had endured willingly at Wilson's hands, and his hopes fell a little.

_Not so soon…surely not…but maybe…maybe if he'll just…_

The thought dropped off, unfinished, as he opened the door to see the younger man standing in his doorway, a dark, unreadable expression in his eyes as he just stared at House for a long, awkward moment. When he finally spoke, it was all House could do not to visibly recoil from the strong smell of alcohol evident on Wilson's breath.

"Well, aren't you going to let me in?" Wilson snapped irritably, leaning against the doorframe as if exhausted – though House was fairly certain that he was just very, very drunk.

"Depends," House replied in an even, cautious voice. "Why are you here?"

Wilson shrugged, the gesture almost sullen, though he did not break eye contact with the other man, the look in his eyes still an indecipherable mystery to House, his emotions, once clearly evident in his every expression, now hidden by a cold, calm mask.

"Because I think it's time we talked about what happened."

House considered those words for a moment, barely daring to allow himself to hope.

After all…Wilson was drunk.

Wilson hated him, now.

Wilson had beaten him without mercy that very afternoon, deliberately targeting the one area he knew would cause him the most pain.

House was not stupid, and the wiser part of his mind was screaming at him to close the door, to tell Wilson that if he still wanted to come back and talk when he was sober and in his right mind, then he should do so, but that tonight, he was not coming in.

The smaller part that was still clinging to hope won out.

With a silent nod of agreement, House stepped back and allowed Wilson to come inside, closing the door firmly behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

House felt unbearably awkward and uncomfortable as he followed Wilson into his own living room, trying to focus on those much more understandable emotions, and not the cold fist of fear that was slowly tightening around his heart – because why should he

House felt unbearably awkward and uncomfortable as he followed Wilson into his own living room, trying to focus on those much more understandable emotions, and not the cold fist of fear that was slowly tightening around his heart – because why should he feel _afraid_ of Wilson?

Sure, he was angry. He had even lost it a bit that afternoon.

_But, dangerous? No…not Wilson…he said he just wants to talk…and we really, _really_ need to talk…_

He cleared his throat, desperate to break the heavy silence that had fallen between them. Wilson had turned to face him, and the piercing stare and cold smile of his former friend had his head lowered and his eyes averted almost instantly. He swallowed hard, trying to soothe his throat and mouth, which felt like sandpaper at the moment. All the moisture seemed to have somehow found its way to his palms.

"Wilson," he began hesitantly, his voice quiet and hoarse. "I…I'm sor—"

His words were cut off abruptly when something heavy and hard flew through the air, inches from his head, and slammed into the wall behind him, shattering as it fell to the floor with the tinkling sound of broken glass. House flinched slightly at the unexpected sound, turning to see the remains of his coffee cup on the floor, its abandoned contents dripping down his wall. He turned back toward Wilson with wide, startled eyes, his head tilted slightly in apprehension.

Wilson's expression was dark, warning, as he reminded him in a low, trembling voice of barely controlled anger, "I told you not to say that to me."

House considered for a moment, never taking his eyes off the younger man's face – almost afraid to – before he nodded his acceptance of the words and finally looked away.

"Right. Then – what _do _you want me to say, Wilson?" he asked, his voice sounding weary and faintly frustrated. "What can I possibly…?"

"_You_!" Wilson cut him off again, fairly spitting out the word as he took a couple of steps closer to House. "You, you, it's always about you, isn't it, House? Always! What _you _want, what you need from me – even if it costs somebody else her _life_!"

House winced at those words, his head dipping lower as he attempted, "I…didn't mean for…"

"You never _mean _for these things to happen, House!" Wilson snapped back, and House was acutely aware that he was still advancing on him, tensing, but with an effort preventing himself from backing away. "But somehow, they always happen anyway…"

Wilson was smiling again, but it was a cold, nasty smile, as he came within a couple of feet of where House stood, and leaned into his face, his voice softening with a mixture of accusation and contempt that hurt worse than any of his actual words so far.

"…and you always get away with them…don't you?"

_Can't show fear, can't let him see that he's getting to me, gotta stand my ground…and God, this is _Wilson_! Can't show fear? What is he, some kind of deadly predator?_

He paused a moment, steadying his voice before he answered quietly, "If this is what you call getting away with it…"

Once again Wilson interrupted his words, but this time it was with a violent shove that threw House off balance, knocking him backwards into the wall where the coffee cup had just shattered. House clutched his cane in his hand, struggling to regain his balance, but Wilson was right in his face again, intimidatingly close, leaving him no room to maneuver, and certainly not to get away, and the best he could do was to brace himself against the wall behind him.

"Oh, no, House," Wilson sneered, his lips twisting into a vicious smirk as he placed one hand on the wall beside House's head, blocking what would have been his only possible route toward the door. "You're _not _getting away with it. Not this time."

In such close quarters, Wilson's breath reeked of alcohol, and House was reminded that at the moment, his friend was not completely in control. Still, it was frightening how calm he seemed, how calculated and deliberate with every action.

House had been out drinking with Wilson enough times to know what alcohol did to his friend. Unlike some people who almost seemed to become _different _people under the influence of alcohol, drinking just seemed to lower Wilson's inhibitions – to make him capable of doing and saying things he wanted to do anyway, but would not allow himself to do in his right mind.

And that knowledge was what _really _hurt.

_He _wants_ to hurt me…wishes I'd died in her place…wants to punish me for taking her away from him…this is what he's wanted to do since that day; he just hasn't dared…but now…_

House studied Wilson's face, catching his lip between his teeth in a nervous gesture as he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to find a way to regain control of what was swiftly spiraling into a very dangerous situation. He lowered his gaze, reaching slowly into his pocket to take out his cell phone.

"You're drunk," he stated quietly, keeping his voice even and unaccusing. "Wilson…you need to go home. Sleep this off. If you…still want to talk about this later…" He hesitated, glancing uneasily up at Wilson with a frown as a troubling thought occurred to him. "How did you get here, anyway? Did you drive?"

"Cab," Wilson answered in a short, impatient tone, clearly eager to get back to the matter at hand.

House nodded. "I'm calling you another one."

He raised the phone in the very limited space between them, dialing quickly with trembling fingers. Before he could finish, however, the phone was slapped angrily out of his hand, skittering noisily across the floor behind Wilson until it hit the couch with a dull thud. House pulled back against the wall, one eyebrow raised as he gave Wilson a questioning look.

The expression in the younger man's eyes chilled his blood, as Wilson shook his head and declared softly, "You're not calling anyone."

"Okay," House replied slowly, careful to keep his voice calm and even despite his rising apprehensions. "Look…I don't know what it is you want from me…"

"I want you to _shut up…_" Wilson snarled, grasping House's lapels in both hands and slamming him against the wall, hard enough to crack the back of his head against it painfully. "…and listen to me for a change. _I'm _the one who's talking now! And you are _going _to hear this! Got it?"

House closed his eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, fighting not to black out from the impact to his still-damaged skull. "Got it," he whispered, still calm. "Just…Wilson…you might wanna try to remember…" He frowned, struggling to finish his sentence as his thoughts suddenly became hazy for a moment, before clearing again, like a moment of interference in a radio signal.

However, his momentary confusion was enough to tell Wilson what he had been trying to say.

"Oh, that's right," Wilson concluded with a nod and a cold smile, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "You're still recovering from a fractured skull, aren't you? I mean, you've been doing pretty well, but…" He stopped for a moment, punctuating his words with a sudden, sharp slap across House's face that knocked his head into the wall again, before leaning in close to finish, "…who knows what might set you back again?" His voice lowered to barely over a whisper as he shifted even closer, their faces bare inches apart. "Maybe I should be careful about that."

Even through the explosion of agony in the back of his head from the blow, Wilson's frigid words left a sinking sensation in the pit of House's stomach, with the aching realization that Wilson no longer cared whether he lived or died. The loss of Amber had pushed the limits of his tightly held control, and Wilson had snapped.

_It's really over…_ House realized, swallowing back a sob that rose in his throat, unbidden. _I've really lost him…_

When he could open his eyes again, he chanced another glance up at Wilson's face, and what he saw there was intensely troubling.

…_not to mention the fact that at this rate, I might not live through this conversation…_

"Wilson," he gasped out, struggling to keep his eyes focused on the man still holding onto his lapels, "you need to calm down…you need to stop this before it goes further than you're wanting it to go…"

"And you need…" Wilson bit off the words, full of bitter frustration. "…to shut…up."

The warning in his tone was clear, and even through the haze of pain and confusion that filled his mind from the blows he had taken to the head, House knew that it was in his best interest to be quiet and listen to whatever he had to say. He nodded silently, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, but keeping them averted, not daring eye contact with Wilson at the moment.

"You think you know better than everybody else," Wilson began, his voice trembling with rage. "You think you're so brilliant that that just excuses all the selfishness and recklessness and the absolute and utter disregard for anyone else around you! You take risks with peoples lives every single day, because you think you're somehow invincible, and no matter what happens, in the end, you're gonna be right – because you're _always _right, aren't you?"

House opened his mouth to respond, instinctively preparing to defend himself, but Wilson just slammed him into the wall again, snarling, "_Shut up!_" before he could get a single word out.

"This time, the risk you took cost someone their life, House! Someone more important to me than anyone!" Wilson's voice broke over the words, and his face was wet with tears as he lowered his voice and added with vicious disgust that made House flinch, "More important to me than you will _ever _be – to _anyone. _She died because you thought you were too good to accept her help – and she went out of her way to help you when you'd never been anything but hateful to her, ever!"

Wilson was quiet for a moment, leaning in closer, shaking House slightly as he demanded, "Look at me!"

Reluctantly House obeyed, swallowing convulsively, willing himself not to look away from the blazing fury in Wilson's eyes.

"She was a better person than you will ever be. You should have died in that accident instead of her…and I will _never _forgive you for that."

House looked away, blinking rapidly, fighting back the tears that came suddenly to his eyes at the blunt, deliberately painful words.

But Wilson was not finished.

"And I should have written you off a long time ago," he continued, his voice calmer now, but still icy and sharp, each word stabbing into House's vulnerable heart with agonizing clarity. "I should have realized that you were never going to learn to care about anyone but yourself. I should have realized that you never appreciated all the time I spent following you around, cleaning up your messes. You were just using me, anyway – and if I'd seen that a long time ago…Amber would still be alive."

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, and House did not dare to speak.

Finally, in an aching whisper, Wilson added, "And I'll never forgive _me _for that."

It was nearly as painful to hear Wilson's self-accusations as it was to hear the rest of his scathing words, and House found that he could not help but at least attempt to make him see the truth.

"For…for what it's worth," he ventured, tensing as he spoke, half-expecting a blow to silence him before he could go any further, "I…I was never using you, Wilson. You were…were really my friend. I…I know it doesn't mean anything that…that I didn't mean for this to happen…but…there's no way you could have possibly known…no way you could have stopped it…it's not your fault, Wilson…it's not your fault…"

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, releasing his hold on House and backing off a step or two, breathing hard. "No," he agreed softly at last, reaching out to take House's cane from his right hand, staring down at the wood with an expression of mingled sorrow and rage in his eyes. "No…it's yours."

Without warning, Wilson slammed the base of the cane into House's stomach, doubling him over in agony and dropping him to his knees, holding his torso and gasping for breath. Contemptuously Wilson tossed the cane down beside him, staring down at him in utter disgust, before heading slowly toward the door.

He stopped in the doorway, turning slightly, his head tilted to the side in a question, as he spoke quietly.

"Just…one more thing." His tone was conversational, as if the entire ugly exchange had not even taken place, and House was not still on his knees on the floor, too racked with pain to even rise. "I was wondering about something. You lied to Cuddy. Told her a patient hit you." He paused, considering, seeming to be at a genuine los. "Why would you do that?"

House stared up at him through haunted, guilt-ridden eyes, gasping out the words as best he could. "I just…just couldn't," he said simply, shaking his head, unable or unwilling to explain further.

Wilson shrugged, apparently accepting that he was not going to get any more of an answer than that. "I was just surprised when I heard you kept quiet about it."

House tensed as Wilson slowly approached him again, crouching down in front of him with a smile that could almost be mistaken for friendly, as he advised in a chillingly soft, calm voice, "That's good. Keep doing that."

Then, without another word, he rose and walked to the door, closing it quietly behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

After Wilson left, House waited a few moments there on the floor, struggling to catch his breath

After Wilson left, House waited a few moments there on the floor, struggling to catch his breath. Finally, he tried to rise to his feet, bracing his cane against the floor and struggling to pull himself up – but the moment he was standing, his head began to spin, and he felt dizzy and off balance.

Alarmed, he took a step toward his discarded cell phone, which was much nearer to him than the land line phone across the room.

He only made it a step before his vision started to fade, and he could feel his legs giving out beneath him. Collapsing to his knees, clutching onto the couch to keep from falling all the way to the floor, House gasped for breath, struggling even to see against the spinning circles of swirling color on the black backdrop of his failing vision.

_Can't call if I can't see the damn phone…_

He fought off a rising sense of panic, well aware that what he had feared – a further injury to his fractured skull – was what he was experiencing. If he could not somehow get help, he could very easily die in the lonely isolation of his apartment. With an effort, his eyes straining to see past the dark haze that clouded his vision, House managed to locate the cell phone, and felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

A moment later, the fear, the relief, what little sight he had remaining – all vanished away, as he collapsed, mind and body, into swirling darkness.

House was almost always late to work – but never this late.

Cuddy glanced at her watch again, frowning with concern, when she passed by his office for the third time that day, and found it still empty. She made eye contact through the glass of the conference room with one of his new hires, the one he called Thirteen, her single raised eyebrow a silent question. The young woman just shrugged, her mouth forming an apologetic grimace as she shook her head.

Cuddy's frown deepened as she turned and headed back to her office, deciding to call his apartment again.

_It's nearly noon…he should be here by now…_

A cold, sick sensation settled in the pit of her stomach as she sat down behind her desk, reaching for the phone.

_Unless…unless that patient hit him harder than I thought yesterday…what if it's his head? He's still not fully recovered…_

She listened to the phone ring – twice, three times, four times – her hand trembling around the receiver as her mind played the same terrifying image over and over: House, lying on the floor of his apartment, inches from the phone, but unconscious and unaware of her call, or unable to get to the phone.

_Come on, come on…_

When after seven rings, House still had not picked up, Cuddy made her decision as she stood up from behind her desk again.

_That's it…I'm going over there…_

When Cuddy reached the front door of House's apartment, she began to hope that he had left the door unlocked, or perhaps had a spare key he left somewhere outside the apartment in case of emergencies – though, given House's personality, that second option seemed highly unlikely. What she never expected at all was what she found, and the sight chilled her blood.

House's door was not merely unlocked, but standing open a good couple of inches.

Fear for her friend made her throat go dry, her heart pounding as she pushed the door the rest of the way home and hurried inside. She stopped short just inside the doorway, however, torn between alarm and relief at what she saw. House was indeed passed out on the living room floor, most likely from the beating he had taken the day before, causing further damage to his already injured head.

But…he was not alone.

Wilson was kneeling beside him, checking his vitals, glancing at his watch every few seconds as he took the older doctor's pulse. He glanced up for just a second when Cuddy walked in, before returning his attention to House, his expression grim and troubled as he worked over his former friend with trembling hands.

"Oh, my God. I'm calling an ambulance," Cuddy whispered, looking around for the phone.

"Already on their way," Wilson muttered, still not looking up.

Cuddy turned to look at him again, breathing out a sigh of relief as she watched Wilson's anxious, hurried movements. She had to admit, despite the frightening situation, that it was good to see him finally show some concern for House's condition. She went to House's other side, kneeling on the floor across from Wilson, looking up at him questioningly.

"What happened? Were you here?"

Wilson shook his head, his expression taut and fearful. "I found him like this. He was…he was late, and I thought…thought maybe it was something like this, after that guy in the clinic…"

Cuddy's expression softened at the sign that despite all his angry, bitter words, Wilson _did _still care about House, and had gone out of his way to come check on him and be sure he was okay.

Unfortunately – he wasn't.

"He's completely unresponsive," Wilson muttered, his voice trembling slightly. "I…I think he's back in a coma…"

After a few tense, interminable minutes, the paramedics arrived and loaded House onto a stretcher, taking him outside to the waiting ambulance. Wilson climbed into the ambulance with him, without hesitation, and though she had intended to ride with House, Cuddy gratefully got into her own car to follow, just glad to see what appeared to be the beginning signs of reconciliation between the two men.

_Even if House had to nearly die again for it to happen…God, please don't let him die…please let him be all right…_

House remained in the coma for nearly two full days after that.

And Wilson never left his side.

Cuddy check in on him whenever she could spare a few minutes, and usually ended up bringing Wilson something to eat or drink when she did, as the younger doctor seemed unwilling to leave the room even for long enough to take care of himself. He just sat there beside House's bed, watching the older man sleep with a sick, stricken expression in his troubled, dark eyes.

At the end of the second afternoon, she decided to keep Wilson company for a while, and settled down in the second chair in House's room.

Wilson looked up, nodded at her when she walked in, but then looked away, immediately focused on House again. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own troubled thoughts.

Finally, Cuddy broke the silence, her words coming out in a soft, trembling sigh.

"There's just one thing…I can't figure out."

Wilson glanced at her, waiting in silence for her to go on.

"They said…there was some kind of…of trauma. To the _back _of his head. Reopened the fracture, caused a bleed, induced the coma."

Wilson nodded; they had both heard the technical explanation for the condition in which they had found House the day before.

"But what I don't get is…he got hit in the face. How did that cause trauma to the point of the fracture?" Cuddy shook her head, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, his expression troubled as he watched his sleeping friend. Finally, he spoke in a soft, thoughtful tone, his voice carefully even, "Maybe…maybe it was worse than he let on. Maybe…the guy did worse than just hit him in the face a couple times."

Cuddy frowned, troubling thoughts of House, alone in a closed exam room with an extremely angry, violent patient filling her mind. "Who'd do a thing like that?" she wondered aloud. "I mean…I can see someone taking a swing at him…just out of a reflex reaction of anger…but…"

Wilson shrugged, before continuing in that same soft, thoughtful voice. "He _does _have a tendency to _really _piss people off." His tone fell to barely over a whisper as he added, "He should be more careful."

Cuddy glanced sharply at Wilson, unsure whether or not she had actually heard the strange, dark note under the concern in Wilson's voice, or merely imagined it. And she didn't have any time to think about it or consider it after that.

Because just in that moment – House woke up.

He could hear their quiet voices, drifting closer to him in waves, as if he was slowly surfacing from some point deep under water. Gradually they became clearer, less muffled, until finally, he could distinctly make out the voices of Cuddy and Wilson, even if he couldn't quite make sense of their words just yet.

He struggled to open his eyes, against light that seemed too bright – and then, all at once, the voices were louder, excited, surrounding him, and all he wanted was to go back to sleep and escape the sudden onslaught of light and sound.

When his vision finally adjusted to the white fluorescent hospital lights, however, he was stunned by the sight that met his eyes.

Wilson, hovering at his side, dark eyes wide with concern, studying his battered face. "House? Can you hear me?"

House nodded, unable to speak just yet, feeling overwhelmed and a little bewildered by the presence of the man who was no longer his friend, but suddenly seemed so worried, so caring. Although his throat was sore and scratchy, he opened his mouth to try to speak.

"No, no, shhh," Wilson interrupted before he could, and House felt, amazingly, a firm, warm hand resting on his. "Don't try to talk, House. Not yet. Just rest, okay? You're gonna be fine…"

House had given up all hope of ever getting back his friendship with Wilson after the events of the night before. Now, however, he found the warmth and concern in the other man's voice, the gentle touch of his hand, drawing that hope back into his heart, making him wonder if perhaps it was not yet too late – if perhaps Wilson's own actions had prompted him to realize what he had almost lost.

"You have to know something, okay?" Wilson was still talking, his voice trembling with emotion, his hand tightening slightly over House's as he pulled his chair closer to the bed, meeting the older man's eyes intently. "All that's happened…all this stuff between us…it doesn't matter anymore, okay? It's in the past. I…I know you didn't mean for Amber to get hurt, and…and I forgive you…okay? I forgive you."

House was vaguely aware of Cuddy rising silently from her seat and edging toward the door, wanting to leave them alone for this private moment, as his body began to tremble with the shock and relief of what Wilson was saying – words he had never expected to hear. He felt the tears slide down his face, but for once, they didn't matter.

Wilson had forgiven him.

"I just want you to get better…okay?" Wilson went on softly. "That's all I want…just for you to get better."

House nodded again, grateful for the words, and eager to do what he could to earn them. The violence, the cruel words Wilson had spoken – none of it mattered in the light of Wilson's forgiveness. If Wilson could forgive him for killing the love of his life, House could certainly forgive Wilson for a few poorly placed blows that he had well deserved.

He was aware that the hoarse whisper of his voice was not the only thing that made him sound pitiful, but did not care, as he rasped out a weak, heartfelt, "Th-thank you…" just as the glass door shut behind Cuddy's retreating form, leaving them alone in the room.

Immediately, Wilson's hand tightened further on his, squeezing painfully tight, as the younger doctor cut him off sharply.

"Shut up."

House stared up at him in confusion, shaking his head slightly, utterly bewildered by the strange and sudden change in Wilson's tone, though the expression on his face had not changed at all.

"Cuddy will be back in a minute. They'll wanna check your vitals and all, make sure you're really out of the woods. So, now would be a really good time for that trademark mask of yours, House," Wilson bit off the words, though his face still held the same wide-eyed look of concern it had before. "Don't let your face give anything away to Cuddy or whoever's watching outside that door."

It was terribly disconcerting – but not nearly as devastating as Wilson's next words, spoken with a warm, affectionate smile on his face.

"Did you actually think I would forgive you that easily?"

House flinched slightly, and Wilson's crushing grip on his hand tightened further in a silent warning. House immediately, deliberately tried to make the expression on his face calm again, his wide eyes searching Wilson's desperately for some sign of the gentleness and concern that had been there moments earlier.

There was none.

"That's funny, House, that's _really _funny," Wilson sneered softly. "I _haven't _forgiven you. No, it's gonna take a lot more than this to get me to forgive you – if I even can at all."

He paused, shrugging slightly, that unsettlingly out-of-place warm smile still on his face as he moved in for a convincingly awkward hug, wrapping one arm around House's shoulders and leaning in close to his ear, his words a cold whisper of amusement.

"I just needed Cuddy and the others off my back about it."

House suppressed the flinch that those words induced, closing his eyes, swallowing hard, aware that the visible emotional reaction would not look strange to anyone watching the scene; they would have no idea what type of emotion was causing the reaction.

"So, it's time for you to start acting like yourself again, House," Wilson continued, still whispering. "If they're gonna leave me alone and stop begging me to forgive you…you're gonna have to put on a pretty convincing show that I already have. Think you can do that?"

Hurt, House wanted nothing more than to pull away from Wilson's hostile embrace, to shove him away and tell him where he could put his cute little act for the benefit of the others.

Somehow, all he could manage to bring himself to do was to nod his head again, silently accepting Wilson's demands, even as fresh tears streaked his face.

"Hey, cheer up," Wilson smirked, pulling back a little to look him in the eyes with chilling malice in his own. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? We get to be best friends again."

As he finished the statement, the glass doors slid open again, and Cuddy entered, followed by the medical team that had been working on House since the morning before. Wilson drew back, giving House's shoulder a warm squeeze.

"I'll just let these guys do their job," he sighed, sounding utterly relieved and content. "I'll be back a little later to check on you, okay? I need to go home and take a shower." There was a soft, self-deprecating laugh in the words, and Wilson sounded so much like his old self that House's heart ached with grief for the friend he had lost.

House barely managed a nod, swallowing convulsively, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

After all – they had an audience, now.


	5. Chapter 5

The following week that House spent in the recovery room passed rather uneventfully

The following week that House spent in the recovery room passed rather uneventfully. As he waited for the reinjury to his skull fracture to slowly heal, House was surprised by the number of visitors who made their way in and out of his room. He had not expected so many people to even care about his injury, much less to take the time to come and see him. However, as it turned out, his room was rarely empty of visitors.

Wilson rarely left at all.

House's new employees came by fairly frequently to check on how he was doing, to update him on the progress of a patient, or just to say hello and let him know they were concerned. His former employees came by more frequently, especially Cameron. She and Cuddy were there more than all the rest of them put together.

While they were there, Wilson kept up a flawless performance, making them believe that he had actually forgiven his friend, giving the impression of ultimate concern and compassion, appearing to be concerned with nothing more than House's safe and swift recovery. He fussed over him, making a big show of making sure he was comfortable and had everything that he needed, laughing and joking with him as they had not done since before Amber's death.

There were moments when _House _almost believed the act – until the others left them alone.

That was when Wilson began filling his ears with gently whispered verbal poison.

Cameron stopped by for the first time halfway through the second day. The moment she walked through the door of his room, she froze, taking in his bruised, battered face, the weary ache betrayed by his tired, bloodshot eyes – and the warmth and compassion in her expression was nearly House's undoing.

_Keep it together, moron, _he warned himself, averting his eyes before she could see too much in them. _Don't let her see…_

"Oh, God, House," she murmured, dismay in her voice, a sympathetic half-smile on her lips. "You look awful."

"Thanks," he replied flatly, rolling his eyes, while silently thanking whoever might be listening that she had given him something he could work with. "What would I do without you here to lift my spirits and brighten my day?"

"I guess we'll never know, will we? Since I just can't seem to stay away."

Unoffended, Cameron sat down in the chair beside his bed with a self-deprecating smile, hesitating a moment before bravely reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. Ordinarily House would have immediately pulled his hand away, rejecting such open affection.

At this particular moment, however – he felt pathetically needy.

Before he even knew he was going to, he had turned his hand slightly in hers, squeezing back – and found to his horror that he did not want to let go, not at all.

Which was why he immediately jerked his hand away, clearing his throat uncomfortably, glancing up at her through lowered eyes, hoping he had recovered before she had noticed his momentary emotional lapse.

Judging by the concerned frown that creased her brow – she had noticed.

She recovered quickly, however, and proceeded to lighten the mood with several random stories of things that had happened around the hospital in the past few days – just the sort of workplace gossip that usually drew House's interest, if only because he loved to know everything that he could about everyone around him.

Today, it was not all that interesting to him, but it was at least a distraction. Wilson joined in the conversation, and House could not remember the last time he had heard him sound so open and casually comfortable. Even though he knew deep down that it was an act, it still felt good to hear it, and he could almost – _almost – _convince himself that it was real. When Cameron left nearly an hour later, House found that despite his situation, he was feeling a little better, a little lighter – a little less hopelessly alone and miserable.

Wilson calmly watched Cameron go, leaning casually back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. A sort of ironic, secretive smile crossed his lips as he glanced speculatively at House, who suddenly could not seem to make himself hold Wilson's gaze. Wilson said nothing for a long moment – but when he _did _speak, the cold, calculated tone of his voice seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

"Pathetic, isn't it?"

House frowned, misunderstanding Wilson's meaning. He shook his head as he objected, "She's over me. That's all in the…"

"Not her. You," Wilson interrupted, scathing contempt in his voice as he gave his former friend a cold, disgusted up-and-down look that left him feeling utterly vulnerable and ashamed – two things he had never thought he could feel, not with _Wilson._ But the mockery in the younger man's voice made his face burn with humiliation.

"She wanted you for nearly a year, and you threw it away – and _now_ you're all trying to hold her hand. That's cute, House. Really cute." He was quiet for a moment, before adding in a chillingly soft, cruel voice, "It's too late, you know. She's over her thing for pathetic, maladjusted, crippled addicts."

House swallowed back the sick sensation of shame that filled his throat, turning his face away from Wilson in a vain attempt to hide the hurt of his words. For some reason, his usual swift wit failed him, and he found himself without any answer for the cruel taunts that he ordinarily would have put down with ease.

It wasn't as if he even still had any romantic feelings for Cameron. Their awkward mutual feelings had long since faded into a reasonably comfortable – if mostly unacknowledged – friendship.

Still, Wilson managed to make him feel like a pathetic, needy fool, hung up on a younger woman who no longer wanted anything to do with him. He found himself going over Cameron's visit again in his head, seeing every casual word and action through the darker lense of Wilson's words, and finding pity where before he had only seen friendship and compassion.

It was like that the entire week.

Foreman and Chase stopped by, together, and spoke casually for a few minutes, asking House how he felt and updating him on a couple minor pieces of hospital news, before going about their work again.

"They couldn't _wait _to get out of here," Wilson observed with a malicious smirk. "Yeah. They _really _care about you, don't they? Probably would have been a relief to them if you _hadn't _woke up."

When House's new staff showed up, together – probably for moral support, as they were all still seemed to be just a little bit scared of him – Wilson barely waited for them to leave again before launching into his searing commentary.

"Yeah…you just can't spend five minutes with another human being without making them hate you, can you, House? And yet they're still here, pretending to care. Selfish insincerity is such a beautiful thing, isn't it?"

Cuddy was there more often, camping out in the chair beside House's bed, holding his hand and talking warmly for hours at a time. In the midst of the nightmare his life was spiraling into, her gentle words and affectionate friendship were a much-needed oasis of safety.

However, her visits forced Wilson to hold up the act for longer periods of time; and somehow, that only seemed to make him more vicious – and far more devastatingly personal – when she finally did leave the room. After one late night visit, the last night before House was released from the hospital, Cuddy left exhausted, but happy with House's increased recovery. As soon as she was gone, Wilson turned his piercing gaze on House, clearly displeased with the relatively serene, peaceful expression on his face.

He instantly set about to destroy the comfort and reassurance Cuddy had just done her best to leave with her friend.

"You see the way she looked at you?" Wilson asked. "She feels sorry for you." He laughed – a cold, brittle sound – as he added, "You're such a joke to her, House. She used to respect you…used to look up to you, even. Now all she sees is a useless, helpless addict who can't even do his damn job without pissing somebody off enough to put him in a coma."

Anger flashed in House's crystal blue eyes as he finally looked up, glaring at his former friend. "Yeah, except we both know that's not what happened. You…"

"She doesn't know that," Wilson pointed out softly, a cruel smile on his lips.

"Yet."

Silence fell in the room for a few tense moments, as Wilson stared intently at House, studying his face with a dangerous glint in his eyes that made House wonder about the wisdom of the single, pointed word he had spoken. After a long moment, Wilson stood up from his chair, slowly moving toward the bed. House maintained eye contact with him, though he wanted badly to look away, his hand sliding down the side of the bed to hover over the nurse's call button.

In a swift, smooth motion, Wilson caught his wrist, pulling it up, placing it back on the mattress, and holding it there firmly. House glanced anxiously toward the deserted hallway outside his room, swallowing convulsively as he looked back up at Wilson through apprehensive eyes. He was utterly alone, with a man who seemed intent on his ultimate destruction – a man who had already almost killed him once – and he was in no physical condition to defend himself.

Wilson smiled, clearly reading his fears in his eyes. "You've sabotaged yourself, House," he informed him in a matter-of-fact voice. "Too many pills…drinking in the middle of the day…massive head injuries…How in the world is she supposed to believe anything you say? Especially over anything _I_ say?"

The cruelty House had endured over the past few days had him on the verge of breaking, emotionally ready to lash out at Wilson in retaliation for the many verbal and physical injuries he had already taken from him; but physically, he knew he didn't stand a chance, not yet. It was best to go along with the younger man's game for now, rather than risking further infuriating him, when there was no one around to see, no one to help him if Wilson decided to put him in another coma.

"Who said anything about saying anything?" House sighed, rolling his eyes, but deliberately backing down, wanting to divert Wilson's anger while it was still possible.

"Hopefully no one," Wilson shrugged. "'Cause you _really_ don't wanna start running your mouth about this stuff, House. Not unless you wanna get hurt."

Before House could react, or make any move to stop him, Wilson's hand shot out, locking around his throat in a choking grip, shoving his head back against the bed behind him. His other hand was still pinning House's right hand to the bed, and he smiled grimly, simply ignoring the weak, scrabbling efforts of his left hand to break his grip on his throat. Wilson easily restraining the older, injured man even as he struggled to free himself, to draw breath before he passed out from the lack of oxygen.

Wilson's thumb was digging into House's windpipe, cutting off his breath completely, until he finally let up a little, allowing him to draw in enough oxygen to keep him from passing out. The monitor to the left of the hospital bed began to beep rapidly, acknowledging the distress House was having in breathing, but Wilson just reached over without hesitation and switched it off for the moment. He leaned in closer, meeting House's wide, panicked eyes as he continued in a cold whisper.

"You're gonna keep your mouth shut, House. You're not gonna say anything to anyone about this. Because no one is gonna believe you, anyway, if you do. Cuddy, all of them – they'll believe me over you. Because everybody knows you're losing it, House. Everybody knows that you've been falling apart for months now. Before Amber. Before any of this."

A part of House's mind knew it wasn't true, knew that Wilson was twisting the events of the past year to his own liking, using them to manipulate him – but another part of him, a dark, insecure part that had believed those things already, accepted them with a sinking heart. He stopped trying to pull Wilson's hand away from his throat, instead holding up his left hand in a pleading gesture, begging Wilson to stop – though he didn't only mean the choking.

The words hurt a thousand times worse.

Wilson took no pity on his devastated friend, instead leaning in closer with a malicious smile, as he continued, each word clear and distinct for maximum agonizing effect. "You lost every shred of credibility you might have had left, around the time I found you lying on the floor of your apartment in a puddle of your own vomit."

House flinched at the memory, and the calloused way in which Wilson referred to it.

"Attempted suicide doesn't exactly make you look like a model of stability."

Wilson sneered, pressing his thumb down harder again, his smile widening with sadistic satisfaction when House gasped uselessly for breath, but did not try again to break his grip on his throat. The younger man nodded slowly, his jaw setting with grim approval, before he finally released his hold, removing his hand mere instants before House would have lost consciousness.

"Now you're getting it," he observed with satisfaction. "I'm in charge, here, House. And you're gonna do what I tell you, and keep your mouth shut. Aren't you?"

A flash of memory filled the fading darkness behind House's eyes, as he hovered between consciousness and sleep – a familiar voice from his past, equally as terrifying as Wilson's was now.

_Now you're starting to get it, aren't you, boy? This is _my_ house. _I'm _in charge here, and you're gonna do as you're told! Aren't you, Gregory? _Aren't you_?_

He winced at the remembered fear and shame of that moment, momentarily uncertain as to where he was, or when. He struggled to make sense of his mingled memories and the painful reality of the moment, blinking in confusion as his lungs filled with blessed, much-needed oxygen, drawing him back to full consciousness.

"Hey…stay with me here, House," Wilson snapped, impatient. "Listen to me! Are you gonna keep your mouth shut, or do I need to…?"

"No…" House shook his head hurriedly, gasping out the words between deep, trembling draughts of much-needed oxygen. "…no, I won't…won't say anything…"

There was a weary resignation in his voice, a sense of utter exhaustion and defeat that seemed to satisfy whatever it was that Wilson was looking for. The younger man nodded, backing off slowly and returning to his chair, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Tomorrow…tomorrow you go home," he stated in a quiet, intent voice. "And everything can go back to normal."

House closed his eyes, taking deep breaths despite the pain in his abused throat, willing himself to go to sleep, to avoid the horrifically complicated mess that his life was swiftly becoming, but as he did, one thought kept circling through his mind.

_No…nothing will ever be 'normal' again…_


	6. Chapter 6

The next three weeks following House's release from the hospital passed rather uneventfully, as things seemed to begin to fall back into their normal rhythms – pre-Amber

The next three weeks following House's release from the hospital passed rather uneventfully, as things seemed to begin to fall back into their normal rhythms – pre-Amber.

That was how Cuddy had begun to think of time lately – as irrevocably split between the years before Amber's death, and the agonizing, interminable months after it. As a whole, the hospital ran very much the same as it always had; but for House and Wilson – the only two doctors at PPTH that she had come to subconsciously think of as "her boys" – life as they knew it had ceased to exist when Amber died.

At least – for a little while.

Now, thankfully, _finally,_ things seemed to be returning to normal.

For months, House had spent most of his time alone, devoid of his former spirit and confidence, a shell of the man he had once been. He still did his job with the brilliance that was so unique to him, still saved his patients when no one else could; but he spoke only when he had to, to whomever he had to, in order to save those patients. He no longer joked and bantered with Cuddy and with his staff; his trademark sense of humor seemed to have all but vanished away.

Wilson kept to himself as well, withdrawn and moody most of the time. Like House, he still did his job well, but avoided most conversations that had anything to do with anything else.

Both men rarely spoke to other people – and they _never _spoke to each other.

It was a blessed relief, the day that Cuddy walked into the cafeteria to find House and Wilson seated together at their usual table, laughing and joking, Wilson leaning in close across the table, apparently to share some quiet gossiping observation about someone else in the room.

Things were finally returning to normal, Cuddy realized with a sense of relief.

_That brief relapse House had might have just been the best thing that could have happened to him._

Except – there were some things that were still not quite right.

Cuddy tried not to, but every now and then she couldn't help but notice that Wilson's cheerful smile seemed more than a little forced, and didn't seem to go any farther than his lips. Of course, it had only been a few short weeks, and he was still grieving for Amber. Yes, he was trying to get back into the routine of his life; but it was understandable if it wasn't easy, if every once in a while he didn't quite manage to pull it off.

That was normal.

But – House still seemed more depressed than usual. Cuddy knew he still felt guilty about Amber's death, and that guilt was not going to go away overnight, especially not when he was faced every day with the evidence of Wilson's continued grief. Still, she would have thought that his mood would have improved with Wilson's forgiveness, giving him a sense of hope he had been lacking over the past few months.

And he _had _returned to his usual wisecracks at the expense of his staff, and even the occasional joke at the expense of her figure. If those joking comments were a bit fewer and farther between than they once had been – well, that was probably normal, too. At least he seemed to have a bit more life about him than he had in the immediate weeks following Amber's death.

But sometimes, when his staff had all walked away, sent off to accomplish whatever tasks he had assigned them, Cuddy thought she saw an expression of desperate relief in his eyes. The mask seemed to fall away for a moment, and the look of weary despair she saw there was strangely terrifying.

But then, just as quickly, the mask would be back in place, and Cuddy was left wondering if she had ever seen it fall at all.

_It takes time,_ she reassured herself. _Can't expect miracles. They're not going to be exactly like they were overnight. Maybe not ever, _exactly, _given what they've been through. Just – give them a little more time to work things out. They've come farther than I ever thought they would._

Still, despite her reasoning, Cuddy couldn't seem to shake the nagging feeling that something was not right between House and Wilson.

And indeed, though she did not know it – something was terribly wrong.

"You're not having a lot of luck lately, are you?"

House grimaced as Cameron carefully wound bandages around his bruised, bleeding left hand. "Of course I am." He paused, muttering the rest of his words through clenched teeth as her gentle ministrations nevertheless aggravated the multiple fractures the hand had taken. "It's just…all bad."

Cameron shot him a dark, disapproving look as she secured the bandages, sighing as she said, "I still think you should have let me splint it, House. That's a compound fracture, and…"

"Tape's fine," House cut her off abruptly, rising to his feet and reaching automatically for his cane, leaned against the edge of the emergency room bed on which he had been seated. "I _did _spend a few years in medical school before I decided to drop out and become a junkie."

Cameron's expression told him just how _not _funny she found his sarcastic remark, as she admonished him in a gently reproving voice, "Be more careful, okay?"

"Yes, Mommy."

"I mean it!" she insisted, her voice trembling slightly, her brow furrowed in a concerned frown. "You've been getting hurt a lot lately, and…and I just think you should take better care of yourself."

House ignored her, taking a step away from the bed, toward the exit into the rest of the hospital. Frustrated, and more than a little worried, Cameron reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her with more ease than she had expected. Looking a bit closer, she thought with some alarm that House looked as if he had been losing weight lately – not that he had been at all overweight to begin with. That was a little worrying, she decided, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

What was also a little worrying was the way he flinched, hissing through his teeth in apparent pain as he pulled his arm away from her. "Damn it, Cameron, don't _touch _me!" he snapped with far more venom than was necessary, and far more than he would have ordinarily used with her.

"What else did you do to yourself?" she demanded, irritated by his angry reaction, as she reached for his arm again. "House, let me see…"

In his hurry to evade her touch, House stumbled a step backward, barely catching himself on his cane before he toppled backward, his eyes wide and slightly trapped as he quickly steadied himself and his expression – but not quite quickly enough.

Cameron's eyes widened with dismay, and she shook her head slightly, studying his face as she asked in a hushed, almost fearful voice, "House…what's going on? What is the matter with you?"

His ever-ready shield of sarcasm back in place, House raised his hand in an exaggerated "ooh-pick-me!" sort of motion, shooting back in a scathing tone, "Ooh, I know! How about I answer for _you_? I'm a nosy little _bitch _who can't stop obsessing about the guy who _used _to be my boss, and therefore can't seem to stay out of his business, no matter how obvious he makes it that he just wants me to leave him _the hell alone_!"

Cameron flinched visibly at those startlingly harsh words, recoiling as if she had been slapped, a wounded expression in her wide, blue-green eyes. House was always sharp-witted, often sarcastic – but almost never so blatantly, openly cruel as he had just been with her.

She thought she saw a trace of regret in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to say more – but then suddenly shut it again, shaking his head in disgust as he turned without another word and limped toward the emergency room exit.

45 minutes earlier…

_No one would have guessed that anything was wrong between Dr. House and Dr. Wilson, as the two friends made their way down the hallway toward the oncologist's office, arguing good-naturedly about the merits of their respective favorite sports teams, casting mild insults in each other's direction as was their usual, comfortable way with each other._

_No, the act was utterly flawless – until the door of Wilson's office closed firmly behind them, and the act fell away completely._

_Wilson seized House's arm in a painful grip, wrenching his shoulder as he jerked him forward before slamming him back again – deliberately avoiding the door and the loud noise that would certainly be audible from the hallway, and instead opting for the sharp corner of the filing cabinet on the opposite wall. House's back arched in agony, his hands curling but not rising to defend himself, as his cane clattered to the floor at his feet._

_Breathless from the pain of the piercing impact to his spine, House gasped out, "Wait! I didn't…"_

"_Shut up!" Wilson snarled, pulling him forward just to slam him back against the cabinet again. "That's your biggest problem, House! You just have no idea when to just shut the hell up!"_

_House bit his lip until he tasted blood, struggling to keep back the cry of agony that was on his lips, aware that if anyone heard him outside Wilson's office, Wilson would only make it worse for him later. _

_As bad as it was, "worse" was hard to imagine – but House knew all too well that something worse was _always _possible._

"_Did you really think that was a good idea, House? You think you're so funny?" Wilson seethed, furious._

"_You…you wanted normal, didn't you?" House gasped out in his defense, struggling to regain his breath. "Mocking you is…n-normal for me…"_

_Wilson punched him viciously in the stomach, doubling him over in agony, before jerking him upright again and shoving him once more against the filing cabinet. Leaning in close, a bitter, malicious smile on his lips, he informed House, "You lost the right to mock my love life when you destroyed it!"_

_He raised his hand as if to backhand the older man across the face, but then hesitated at the last moment, lowering his hand with an ironic smile. House flinched at the preparation for the blow, but then looked up in apprehensive surprise when it did not fall, glancing between Wilson's clenched fist and cold, smiling face with anxious confusion._

"_Guess I'd better avoid the face for a while, huh?" Wilson sneered softly. "Wouldn't wanna do any damage anyone might notice."_

_Without any further warning than those vague words, Wilson drove his fist viciously into House's right thigh, releasing him to allow him to drop to the floor on his knees, gasping for breath that would not come, in unspeakable agony. House's face fell forward against the floor as he clutched his damaged leg with both trembling hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, tearless sobs of pain._

_Wilson crouched in front of him, pitiless as he grabbed House's hair and jerked his head up again, forcing him to face him, waiting until the pain seemed to have subsided enough to allow House to hear him. "You're gonna learn to watch that smart mouth of yours," he declared in a voice that was almost gentle, chillingly incongruent with his actions. "Put out your hand."_

_House looked up at him with a questioning frown, his head tilted slightly in confusion._

_Demonstrating what he meant with his own hand, palm up, Wilson clarified impatiently, "On the floor. Put out your hand."_

_Alarmed, House shook his head slightly, swallowing convulsively as he whispered, "Wilson…no…"_

_A vicious smirk twisted Wilson's mouth as his free hand came to rest over the sensitive, vulnerable spot on House's right leg, still throbbing from the first blow it had taken. He squeezed slightly, his smile widening with malice when House drew in his breath sharply, tensing in preparation for more pain._

_Wilson leaned in close, releasing House's hair and placing his hand on the side of House's neck, his thumb under his chin tilting his head up slightly, increasing the sense of vulnerability the older doctor already felt as he met his eyes, a chilling promise of _worse _in his gaze, should House fail to obey his command. _

_Over-pronouncing the words in a soft but unyielding voice, Wilson demanded, "_Do it._"_

_Fearing the pain of further injury to his leg more than whatever else Wilson might be planning, House reluctantly obeyed, extending his shaking hand, palm up in front of him, on the cool tile of the floor in front of Wilson's desk. Wilson's smile softened slightly, and his hand at House's throat became gentle, caressing through his hair as he rose to his feet to tower over the kneeling, frightened man at his feet._

Nothing noticeable…he said nothing noticeable… _House reassured himself with words that felt meaningless in the midst of his current situation._

_And they _were _meaningless._

_Without pity, without hesitation, Wilson brought the hard sole of his shoe down hard on House's hand – once, twice, and again, shattering bone and breaking flesh with the cruel impact of his full weight on the fragile appendage._

_House choked back a cry of anguish, a torn sound somewhere between a sob and a roar never making it farther than his throat, as Wilson took a step backward, glaring impassively down at him. House tensed, aware even through the pain as Wilson slowly leaned over and picked up his cane, tapping the end of it slowly into his hand as he stared down at him._

"_Get up," he ordered coldly, the command made more cruel by the fact of the cane he held in his own grasp – and out of House's reach._

_Struggling to bear his weight on his one good hand, House finally managed to drag himself to his feet, clinging to the handle of the top drawer of the filing cabinet for support. His eyes were downcast, not daring to look at Wilson's face, his shoulders slumped, his knees bent slightly in a subconscious effort not to stand taller than the other man, not to anger him with any perceived arrogance._

_Wilson stepped slowly toward him, patiently, in no hurry, closing the distance between them until bare inches separated them. He grabbed House's collar in one hand in an almost casual grip, turning him so that his back was to the cabinet, looking him over speculatively for a long moment before he finally spoke._

"_You're such a klutz," he observed calmly. "Shut your hand in the drawer in your office. Better get to emergency and get that taken care of right away, don't you think?"_

_House nodded uncertainly, tensing, drawing in his breath as Wilson's hand lowered to grasp his injured hand in a loose, gentle grip that was not painful – but promised to become so if given the proper motivation. Wilson raised House's hand in his, pressing it slightly against the cool metal of the filing cabinet, as he shifted in closer, leaving almost no space between them at all._

"_But you keep your mouth shut. Understand?"_

_House nodded hurriedly, his eyes downcast, his breath shallow and trembling as he fought back a sense of panic at Wilson's firm, unyielding touch on his shattered hand._

"_And…just get it taped, not splinted..."_

_House looked up in surprise, a questioning expression on his face as he met Wilson's cruel smirk. Then he winced, biting his lip as Wilson squeezed the damaged hand, ever so slightly, just enough to send tiny electric sparks of pain shooting through it, and explained in a softly chilling voice._

"…_in case this lesson doesn't take…and I need to give you another one."_

_When he finally released House's hand and allowed him to move away from the cabinet behind him, House hurriedly made his way out of the office and toward the emergency room, hoping against hope that Cameron was not on duty, and that whoever was would buy his story._


	7. Chapter 7

God, how in the world did I get here

_God, how in the world did I get here?_

House sat on his sofa, staring in the direction of his television, which was tuned to some inane sitcom with an annoying laugh track. He had discovered that aspect of the program right after turning on the television. Now the volume was turned almost all the way down. It didn't really matter all that much.

He hadn't been watching, anyway.

House looked away from the screen, his morose gaze falling on the nearly empty glass of golden-colored liquid in his hand. He didn't allow himself to look at the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table, not wanting to remind himself of how much he had already drunk that evening – the first evening he had spent alone in his apartment in weeks.

Wilson hadn't come by this evening – not yet, anyway.

Losing himself in the sight of the clear fluid in the glass, House found his memories drawn back in time by the color of it.

_What's my necklace made of?_

"The same color as my scotch. Get the hell out of my head," House muttered at the remembered hallucination – but the damage was already done, her name already resonating in his drink-addled mind.

_Amber._

Suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to finish the rest of the drink in the glass, and leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table. As he did, he accidentally brushed his injured left hand against the side of the couch, wincing as sparks of pain shot through it, and he was reminded that Cameron was right – he really should have allowed her to splint it.

But Wilson wouldn't let him.

And how monumentally screwed up was _that_ thought?

_Why do you let him keep it up? Don't have to take this from him,_ he reminded himself with a sense of bitter resentment. _Don't have to let him keep doing this. Could just tell him to go screw himself, or the next time you're calling the cops, or Cuddy, or someone…Don't have to let him keep testing how close he can get to killing you without actually finishing the job…_

But House knew that in a twisted, troubling sense, that was not entirely true.

Yes, the next time that Wilson came at him with his scathing insults and accusations, fists and feet and brutal words flying, House could easily tell him to go to hell – to get away from him and leave him out of the madness that was slowly consuming the younger man. It would be so simple just to tell Wilson that his fun was over; his debt had surely been repaid now, and the novel little game he had developed of "Torture the Cripple" was a thing of the past.

Except, again – House knew that wasn't really the case.

He wasn't quite sure that his debt would _ever_ be fully repaid.

That's _why you let him keep doing it…because you _owe_ him…because he _deserves_ to…It's his right, for what you've taken from him, all you've cost him over the years…even the love of his life. The one woman he _might_ have been happy with, you took from him. _

_Gotta take your punishment like a man, Greg… _The voice echoing in his mind now was no longer his own, but a long distant memory he had tried to forget. _You messed up, and now you've gotta face the consequences. Don't fight it, or it'll only be worse…_

He shuddered, trembling hands rising to cover his head as he leaned forward over the coffee table, in a vain attempt to shut out the dark memories. He tried to remind himself that the man who had said those words was no longer a part of his life, no longer held any power over him.

_No…he's been replaced…by what's left of your best friend…_

Which was, admittedly – not much.

House looked at what Wilson had become over the last few months, and a cold, unsettled sensation filled his chest to think of the person that Wilson had been, and the cruel, vindictive man he had become. It hurt to think that the caring, gentle man who had given everything he had to dying children was capable of the kind of sadistic violence that Wilson had been unleashing on House these past few weeks.

_And you made him that way; you took the person he cared about more than anyone else, and left him cold and empty…nothing left of the love with which he used to live his life…_

The thought was unbearable.

Like every other problem he encountered in the course of his work, House was convinced that if he tried hard enough, searched long enough, and finally found the right answer – he could fix this. He could find a way to bring Wilson back to life again, back to the way he once was; he could fix this.

He _had_ to fix this.

It was frightening how quickly Wilson had descended into a pattern of violence and lies. Lies, as day by day, he pretended for those around him that everything was fine, back to normal. He lied by making them believe that he had moved on with his life, even going so far as to forgive the friend who had cost him so much – and he dragged House into the lie with him, forcing him to go along with it.

But inevitably, something would happen – usually something House would do or say – to trigger the rage that still filled Wilson's heart. Some word that reminded him of her, some part of the act that was _too _familiar, _too _intimate, and led him to believe that House might have momentarily forgotten the way things _really_ stood between them – and he would show up at House's apartment that night, or worse, find a way to get him alone in his office, or an empty room at the hospital…and remind the older man of just where he stood in Wilson's eyes.

He was nothing to him – not anymore.

Nothing more than a convenient target on which to vent his rage.

House was left feeling more broken and devastated than ever in the wake of each incident – but he couldn't help but notice that immediately after, Wilson would walk away with a fresh spring in his step, a smile on his lips that seemed just a little more genuine. For a little while, his friend seemed to be doing better, following the violent releases in which he indulged himself.

In fact, ironically, it was in the days immediately after such a violent outburst that House was most able to pretend that the act, the false front of their old camaraderie and closeness, was real. Wilson's eyes twinkled with genuine amusement, and his voice held a warmth, on those days, that was otherwise absent from him.

And, pathetically, House could not help but cling to those fleeting moments, all he had left of the only meaningful friendship he had allowed himself to cultivate in his life.

_Maybe…maybe if I help him get through this…help him get all this anger and grief out…maybe someday…he'll be okay again…he'll be _himself _again…_

There was a giant flaw in that theory, however, one that House tried his best to ignore.

Those seemingly happy, comfortable times between the violent incidents were growing shorter; and the violence itself was escalating. Wilson was usually careful not to leave any marks where anyone would see them, but the physical damage he was doing to the older man grew worse with every attack.

_Maybe one of these days…he'll just kill you and be done with it…_

House could not help but view that prospect with a sense of irrational hope – and that was the most frightening thing of all.

Across town in his own apartment, Wilson stared dully into his own glass of liquid comfort, though his was still mostly full.

Of course, it was his fifth of the evening so far – and it was only eight o'clock.

_God, how in the world did I get here?_

When he thought about the last few months, all he saw was a blur of mindless activity, false fronts put up for the benefit of the well-meaning co-workers that surrounded him, but never serving to ease the pain that still ran below the surface, the grief that still held him in its grip.

And the rage.

Yeah…that was the scary part.

He didn't like to think about the things that rage had led him to do in the past few weeks, and to a person he had once considered to be his best friend. It was chilling, disturbing, as he thought back over the things he had done, watching them in his memory as if from a distance, as if it was some other person, some stranger, slamming House into walls and beating him to the floor with his fists. No, Wilson didn't like to think about those things.

Doing them, on the other hand – that was a different matter altogether.

The first time, when House had come to him in his office to apologize, he had felt justified in his angry reaction. How dare the selfish, arrogant bastard think that he could simply utter a couple of meaningless words, and undo the devastation he had wrought in Wilson's life? It had felt good to hit House, to knock the smug confidence off his face and see him shaken, the mask falling to the ground, shattered at his feet with the remains of Wilson's heart – his life.

It had felt _so_ good, in fact, that he had sought House out again that night.

He told himself he just wanted to talk to House, just wanted to get some things off his chest. Of course, what actually happened turned out to be far different from that – but he was drunk at the time, and certainly not responsible for his actions. House knew he was drunk when he let him in; he should have known better.

And again – there was that euphoric sense of release that came with unleashing the frustrated fury, the grief-fueled rage that was constantly bottled up inside him, onto the physical person of the one who had caused that grief. Wilson felt no guilt that second time, not while it was happening, anyway.

House killed Amber – and for that, he deserved to be punished.

And Wilson deserved to be the one to punish him.

It was only the next morning, when House failed to show up to work at all, that Wilson began to worry. Had he really hurt him that badly? Was House _physically incapable_ of coming to work, due to the beating he had dealt him?

And worst of all – what would happen if someone else found House first?

Wilson had gone to his apartment, and called an ambulance when he saw how badly House was injured. He had ridden with him in the ambulance, and stayed with him at the hospital the entire time. He was afraid to leave his side, for fear that House might awaken, and reveal the truth about what had happened to Cuddy, or Cameron, or whoever else might happen to offer their misguided sympathy to the man who had killed Amber.

Wilson had nearly panicked in the hours following House's admittance to the hospital, worried that with his first waking words House would spill his dark secret. But gradually, over the long hours that House spent in the coma…Wilson began to formulate a plan.

It was going to take some carefully placed words, some rather devious manipulation, in order to pull it off; but Wilson knew that if anyone _could_ pull it off – it would be him. He was quite possibly the only human being alive who knew House well enough to do so; he knew secrets that House had only ever confided in him, and he would use them to help keep his own secrets.

Wilson would have felt guilty, had he not been so certain that House _deserved_ this punishment, this suffering – and was certainly not worth Wilson's career. He would do whatever he had to do to keep his former friend quiet.

Of course, using the intimate details he knew about House's childhood abuse at the hands of his father – that had almost made him feel guilty. _Almost._ It was just too easy, twisting his words to match those House's father might once have spoken, to make them seem familiar, and to therefore provoke a familiar response in House, even decades after the abuse itself had taken place.

_He deserves it…he deserves to be punished…_

Wilson told himself that, again and again, in the days following his violent outbursts, when he began to think about the things he had done, and a cold, sinking sensation settled in his stomach. And though deep down, he knew that he should not be doing these things, that he should move on, and out of the unhealthy cycle into which he had fallen – eventually, he always felt the tension mounting again within him, drawing him tighter and tighter like the strings on a violin, until he knew that with the slightest additional pressure, he would surely snap.

And finally…he always did.

And the sweet relief, the release of venting all that rage and frustration, all the things he could not allow himself to feel in the light of day, and still keep doing his job, functioning, _living_ – well, no matter how guilty he felt, no matter how wrong he knew it was, Wilson simply could not resist the pull of those dark, violent emotions.

He smiled, a humorless, ironic smile, as he took another sip of the amber liquid in his glass, and tried not to think of the girl its color always brought to mind.

_Funny how things work out…who's the addict, now?_

He was aware of his own addiction, but if there was one thing his experience with House had taught him, it was that, while admitting you had a problem might be the first step, there was a whole host of following steps, and if you made no further effort – that first step was meaningless.

He knew he had developed a twisted addiction to the release – to the suffering and helplessness of the man who had once been his friend, and was now his both his enemy and his victim.

That knowledge did not stop him from setting down his glass, reaching for his car keys, and heading for the door – and House's apartment across town.

House sat in that same spot on his couch for hours, though he could not bring himself to drink another drop. His hand and his leg throbbed, and he wished for the thousandth time for his Vicodin to dull the pain – but he didn't have any Vicodin, hadn't had any in nearly a week.

Nearly a week ago, Wilson had decided that he shouldn't have it.

_You don't deserve it…what you deserve is to hurt… _

House winced at the memory of a brutal kick to his damaged thigh – a favorite target of Wilson's these days – as he had sat where he had fallen on the floor, next to the couch where he sat now.

_You think I do this to you so you can drug yourself up and forget it? No way, House. I _want _you to feel it. I want you to _remember_ what you've done to deserve this._

He shuddered, leaning his head against the back of the sofa, closing his eyes as he rested his foot on the coffee table, his one good hand uselessly massaging the aching muscle in his right leg.

When the doorbell rang, he froze, his stomach dropping in an instinctive reaction of fear. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling hot and dry, as he slowly raised his head and looked apprehensively toward the door. The doorbell rang again as he waited, and he frowned.

If it was Wilson, he would already be inside.

Wilson had a key, now, so he could come in whenever he felt like it.

_So…who then?_

He rose painfully to his feet, clutching his cane with white, shaking fingers as he made his way to the door and cautiously opened it, just enough to look out at the unknown visitor waiting there.

Cuddy.

She smiled at him with a warmth he was not used to seeing from her, as she casually pushed the door open further and slid inside.

"Hey," she greeted him. "You haven't eaten yet, have you? I was thinking you might like to grab a bite with me." Her smile faded slightly as she looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled, ashen appearance. "But you're not going like that. Hurry up, we'll miss all the best places if we don't get going."

Confused by her unexpected visit, as well as by her assertive, take-charge manner, directed for once toward his personal life rather than his office behavior, House struggled for words for a moment before finally forming a protest.

"I've…already eaten…"

Cuddy raised a single brow in his direction as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Last week doesn't count. Go get dressed."


	8. Chapter 8

House had been drinking – and a lot, judging from the level of liquor remaining in the bottle on his coffee table

House had been drinking – and a lot, judging from the level of liquor remaining in the bottle on his coffee table.

Cuddy knew better than to try again to convince him of the stupidity of drinking, when he was still recovering from such a severe head injury. She had known him long enough to know very well that he would do what he wanted, regardless of any lectures or criticisms she might offer.

She also knew, instinctively, that the last thing House needed right now was more criticism.

What he needed was a friend – one whose relationship with him, though apparently mending, was not painfully strained by all the hurts and offenses that still remained between them. Cuddy was grateful that Wilson was back in House's life, and that the two men seemed to be becoming close again, but it was obvious from their behavior that things were still far from perfect.

Despite the apparent closeness that seemed to have returned between House and Wilson, and the good cheer that the older doctor exhibited when the two of them were together, Cuddy could not help but notice that whenever Wilson was _not _around, House seemed to be in a state of deep depression.

He was constantly distracted, needing things to be repeated often because he had not been listening the first time; and he often turned up to work in the morning, or even in the middle of a shift, with unexplained injuries, most likely caused by simply not paying attention and not taking decent care of himself.

And Cuddy was pretty sure she knew what the problem was.

House could talk to Wilson about almost anything – but who could he talk to _about _Wilson, and the problems that remained in their relationship?

So, she made the decision to offer up her own services in that department – though how her offer would be received, she had no way of knowing. She was determined, however, not to be rejected without a fight.

Once she had successfully maneuvered her way into House's apartment, Cuddy took the opportunity to get a good look at her friend, and was immediately filled with alarm at his appearance.

He was more disheveled than usual, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days – or eaten, for that matter. His rumpled clothes hung off him in a way that she had failed to notice until that moment, and Cuddy frowned in concern, wondering how long it had been since his last meal. His eyes were red and a little hazy as he glanced self-consciously at her, making eye contact for just an instant before looking away uncomfortably.

Of course, he was drunk – but Cuddy knew that whatever was going on with House was much worse than that; she just had no idea what it was that might be.

But she had every intention of finding out.

"'M not hungry," House muttered stubbornly, still not meeting her eyes as he limped back toward the sofa and his abandoned drink on the coffee table.

"Don't care. You can come with me and watch _me_ eat, then."

Cuddy replied without hesitation, breezing past House and easily beating him to the table to pick up the half-empty glass of Scotch just as House reached for it. With her other hand she picked up the bottle of alcohol, and carried both to the kitchen, ignoring House's outraged groan of protest as she poured what was left of both down the sink, then turned to face him again with her arms crossed over her chest.

"That's very expensive liquor you just poured down the drain," he informed her with clear irritation. "Costs nearly 100 a bottle."

Cuddy smirked, not at all bothered. "Then I owe you about 10.00. Go change, House," she ordered. "Now. I'm not leaving without you."

It was disconcerting to say the least, the way that House's eyes flashed with fear at those words, and he glanced toward the door as if expecting someone to walk through it at any moment. Something about her statement seemed to change his mind – though Cuddy could not for the life of her figure out what – as he let out a frustrated sigh of defeat and headed toward his bedroom, muttering as he went.

"Does this look like a hospital to you? Because contrary to your apparent opinion, in _this _room, you are not the boss of me!"

"Yeah, yeah. Go."

House unintentionally disproved his own argument when he obeyed without another word, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Cuddy sat down on his couch, picking up the remote and turning on the television while she waited for House to get ready to go. As the minutes ticked by, however, and his door remained closed, she found herself wondering if he was getting ready at all. Perhaps he had just shut her out to escape her scrutiny, and had gone to sleep, forgetting all about her.

Just when she was about to get up and go to his door, it opened, and House walked out, dressed in a clean, unwrinkled blue shirt over a grey t-shirt, and a fresh pair of jeans. He glanced up at her self-consciously, before looking down again and to his left; Cuddy followed his gaze, and her expression softened with compassion as she suddenly understood his discomfort, as well as what had taken him so long to get ready.

His left hand was bound with gauze and medical tape, and she could see dark bruising where the bandages didn't cover.

_Another accident… _Cuddy frowned, troubled. _What is his deal lately? Why does he keep getting hurt?_

But as House turned impatiently toward her at the door, she quickly put a cheerful smile on her face, not allowing it to waver even as he snapped at her irritably.

"Well? Are we going or not? If I have to spend an entire evening with _you_, I'd just as soon get it over with."

Cuddy just smiled as she followed him to the door, walking through it as he held it open for her, hoping that her worry did not show on her face.

"How do you feel about Mexican?"

Wilson didn't bother knocking when he reached House's door, just pushed it open and walked inside, slamming it behind him, far more forcefully than was necessary. Once inside, however, he stopped, frowning as he looked around the empty living room, where he had expected to find House, camped out on the sofa which he rarely left lately.

"House?" he called out, walking into the kitchen, then to House's closed bedroom door, opening it and turning on the light, glancing around the room before shutting the door again. "Where are you?"

His frustration mounted as he realized that House was not home – leaving him to deal with the building rage within him on his own, without the convenient outlet of his human punching bag to help him. Seething with fury, Wilson stalked through the apartment again, checking each room again, though he already knew it was a futile search.

_After I told him to stay home tonight! I _told_ him I'd be coming by…and he's gone when I get here!_

Wrestling with the irrational anger that consumed him, Wilson stifled a snarl as he sat down on the sofa, grabbing the remote and changing the channel in disgust, wondering briefly why House would have had the station tuned to _Lifetime_.

_I can wait…and when he gets back… _Wilson's mouth twisted into a grim, cruel smile of anticipation at the thought. _…I'll teach him to walk out on me…_

"So…what happened to your hand?"

Cuddy finally interrupted the awkward silence that had reigned since they had left House's apartment, with the question that had been echoing in her mind ever since she had seen the bandages on his hand. She had winced inwardly as she had watched him favor the damaged hand, but restrained herself from mentioning it for as long as possible.

Of course…that was only so long.

House glanced up at her over his untouched plate of enchiladas, a self-deprecating smirk on his face as he answered without hesitation. "Slammed it in a drawer in my office. Coordination's a bit off lately."

"Maybe it's a side effect of mixing Vicodin with all that alcohol." Cuddy watched him, a single brow raised as she waited for his response.

House laughed, a quiet, mirthless sound, and he shook his head, looking away from her. Something about the gesture made a cold sensation settle in the pit of Cuddy's stomach, a vague uneasiness that she could not quite pinpoint.

"Yeah," House conceded finally, sarcasm obvious in his voice, his smile having vanished completely as he finally met her eyes. "That's it. It's the alcohol. All my own fault. Self-induced, as usual."

The bitterness in his voice drew Cuddy's attention, and she frowned, troubled, wondering what it was about her statement, and his own words, that House found so ironic. There was something she was missing, something vital – but she had no idea what it might be.

And the only way she could thing of to find out was clearly doomed to failure.

Still, that knowledge did not stop her from trying it anyway.

"House," she began, hesitating before continuing with a sigh of resignation, "is there any chance in the world that if I just _ask_ you, honestly, what in the world is going on with you lately – that you might _actually_ tell me?"

House stared at her for a long moment, obviously wrestling with himself over how to respond, before finally settling on the simple truth.

"No."

Cuddy nodded, accepting what she had already known. "I'm worried, House. You…you keep getting hurt lately, and…and that's not like you."

"In case you've forgotten, I happen to be a cripple," House pointed out with a mocking smile. "Accidents happen to be a bit more frequent among the disabled than among well-functioning _normal_ people."

"You're not clumsy." Cuddy was not buying his generalized argument, not for a second. "You're the most observant person I've ever met – _ever_ – and you would notice if your hand happened to be _in_ a particular drawer before you decided to slam it shut."

House looked away from her, his jaw setting in a stubborn expression that Cuddy had seen often enough to recognize. House had already decided that she was not going to get any further information out of him, and she knew that once he made that decision, it would take a minor miracle to change his mind.

"I told you what happened," House replied in a low, even voice, carefully devoid of any emotion whatsoever. "It was an accident."

"What a coincidence. Didn't you have one of those last week, too? And the week before that?"

"Don't."

Cuddy ignored the warning tone in his voice, leaning forward across the table, her eyes locking urgently onto his as she continued, "House…whatever kind of trouble this is that you've gotten yourself into…if someone's hurting you, if you…owe somebody money or something…I want to help, okay? I'm worried about you…"

"Cuddy…" House's voice shook slightly as he tried again to warn her off – but Cuddy was having none of it.

"I am!" she insisted, a tremor in her own voice, her eyes glistening suspiciously. "You're not eating…you're drinking yourself into a stupor, alone, on a regular basis…you've got a new injury every few days…and I can't stand to see you like this! House – is it the drugs? Are you just doing this to yourself for some reason? I can't figure this out, House – you have to tell me what is going on here!"

"I don't _have_ to tell you a damn thing!" House snarled, slamming his glass down on the table loudly as he glared at her with all the venom he could muster. "Because it's none of your business! I'm fine! Everything is under control, and I don't need your help, and I don't need your _pity_! So you can go on back to your neat, tidy little life, content that you _tried_, you did your best to help the self-mutilating alcoholic drug addict klutz back onto the right path, and it's not your fault he wouldn't listen to reason, is it? I'm. _Fine_. Cuddy. So you can stop pretending like you care!"

Cuddy flinched at House's scathing tone, hurt by his angrily dismissive words, but she could not bring herself to give up on him – not yet.

_Probably not ever…_

"I'm not pretending," she insisted, her voice softer now, and choked with tears. "I care about you, House. I'm your friend…"

"You're my _boss_," House countered, his voice laced with contempt. "So if you feel the need to lecture me, save it for the office."

Cuddy was quiet for a long moment, wrestling with her emotions, brought dangerously close to the surface by House's harsh, hurtful words. She lowered her eyes to the table for a moment, picking at the tablecloth as she blinked back tears. Finally, when her voice was enough under control that she trusted herself to speak, she replied in a quiet, even tone.

"It's nice to see your…your fire back, House. Even if…if it's poorly aimed. I don't think I deserve it – and I don't think _you_ do, either, if that's what this is about…if you're…punishing yourself, somehow, for…for..." She faltered for a moment, searching for words, before finally finishing, "…for something that was just an accident. It wasn't your fault…"

She hesitantly looked up to meet his eyes, gratified to see that he at least looked startled by her unexpected assessment, his intense cerulean gaze locked onto hers. "I think…if you'd turn half of that anger and determination toward your problems – whatever they are – you'd be able to take care of them all on your own…and I…I could stop worrying about you. So…for both our sakes…I really wish you would."

House opened his mouth as if to respond – but for once, seemed struck speechless.

After a moment, he looked away, finally taking a bite of his dinner, as if only for an excuse not to respond to her.

Neither of them spoke another word until Cuddy dropped House off on the doorstep of his apartment.

House unlocked the door and stepped into the darkened living room, not bothering with the light as he made his way toward his bedroom door, his eyes focused on the floor, his heart heavy and sick with the remembrance of the words Cuddy had spoken. He did not want to let her see the effect her words – and the simple fact of her heartfelt concern – had on him; but the way her eyes had glittered with unshed tears, the tremor in her voice as she had begged him to let her help him – he couldn't get it out of his mind.

_Maybe she's right…maybe I just need to stand up to this…to_ him…_once and for all…_

The thought was frightening – but also exhilarating.

One thing Cuddy had said, House knew to be true – things could not keep going on as they had been.

If they did – he knew that it would not be long before he was dead.

He opened the door to his bedroom, walking into the darkness without hesitation, knowing every nuance of the room by heart without looking, and sat down on the side of his bed with a heavy sigh.

Whether he wanted to face it or not – Cuddy had given him a lot to think about.

He reached across to the nightstand and turned on the lamp – and nearly jumped out of his skin, barely suppressing a startled yell, as his eyes widened and came to focus on the chair across from his bed.

The chair where Wilson sat, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for House with murder blazing in his dark eyes. His voice was low, calm, and infinitely cold as he spoke, the sound of his voice sending a chill of apprehension down House's spine.

"Hey, House. Where the hell have you been?"


	9. Chapter 9

Wilson's heart pounded, his mouth dry with fear, as he pulled the car over to the curb yet again with trembling hands

House froze, staring at the younger man for a long moment, barely daring to move or speak.

There was a frightening coldness, a predatory gleam in Wilson's eyes, that made House feel like a lame gazelle being stalked by a panther. His hand tightened instinctively on his cane, in preparation for a confrontation, although he was still not sure if he could bring himself to actually fight back. Feeling at more than one definite disadvantage, House steadied himself with the cane and began to stand up.

Wilson's sharp eyes darted toward the slight tell-tale motion of House's hand. He stood up smoothly from his chair, moving into House's space, his hand resting over House's on the top of his cane in a harsh, restraining grip that prevented House from gaining enough leverage to rise. With a cool, knowing smile on his face, Wilson met House's apprehensive eyes.

"No need to get up."

Wilson's other hand ran through House's hair in a deceptively gentle motion that suddenly turned harsh and controlling. He jerked House's head back slightly, forcing House to look up at him. His smile never faltering, he added, "I asked you a question."

House maintained eye contact with Wilson as he reached up and gripped the other man's wrist, forcefully guiding his hand away from his head. Wilson looked startled, disbelieving, as House replied in a calm, even voice.

"And the answer is none of your business."

Wilson let out a soft huff of surprised laughter, his eyebrows raised incredulously as he pulled his hand away from House's. He tilted his head slightly in a calm, speculative manner.

Abruptly he drew back his fist, backhanding his former friend and knocking him backward onto the mattress. While House was off guard, he jerked the cane out of his hand and tossed it across the room, ensuring that he would be effectively immobilized, unable to escape Wilson's attack, as Wilson struck him a powerful, dizzying blow to the face with his fist.

"_Everything _you do is my business!" he snarled.

Dazed, House struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position with one hand, while trying to fend off Wilson's next blow with the other. He managed to haul himself up against the headboard, taking one blow to the stomach before catching Wilson's wrist and pushing the younger man away from him, sending him stumbling a few steps backward.

Wilson's eyes narrowed in fury at the unexpected resistance. Coming at House again before he could get off the bed, he drove his fist into the older man's chest, momentarily knocking the breath from him. For a few chaotic moments, they were a tangle of flailing, frantic limbs and bodies as Wilson used the opportunity to climb onto the bed, attempting to pin House down against it.

House fought back as well as he could, struggling to push Wilson off of him, but the younger man's greater strength and leverage soon had him firmly pinned against the bed, Wilson straddling his chest and arms so that he could not defend himself.

"Get off me!" House snarled in outraged fear, still struggling futilely. "Let go!"

Furious, his teeth clenched in an expression of vindictive determination, Wilson grabbed a pillow from the head of House's bed and pressed it down over his face, hard. Panicked, House struggled, uselessly writhing beneath the weight that held him down. Wilson seemed determined to end House's futile attempts at self-defense – one way or another.

Confirming that thought, Wilson leaned down, his face level with House's ear, and snarled in a warning voice, "_Stop…fighting me_. Stop fighting me, House, or I swear to God, I will kill you right now!"

Lack of oxygen made House's head swim, flashing fireworks of color dancing before his closed eyes. He knew that his only option in that moment was surrender. He tried to force himself to go still, even though his entire body was taut and trembling with the effort of controlling his instincts, screaming at him to _fight _for the life he was on the edge of losing.

As he ceased his resistance, just as he began to black out, Wilson eased the pressure he was applying to the pillow, pulling it back just enough that House was able, with great effort, to draw breath again. However, he kept the pillow close to his face, muffling any possible cries or attempt at speech.

"So, are we done with the stupidity for the night? Or should I just finish what I've started?" Wilson's voice was cold, contolled…and terrifying.

House _knew _that if he fought back right then, Wilson would kill him.

He shook his head weakly, trying to relax, to allow the easing tension in his body to communicate to Wilson that he would submit, would not struggle anymore.

"Good." House heard the smirk in Wilson's voice, even before the younger man pulled the pillow away and allowed him to see it on his face. "Just settle down," Wilson advised. "It didn't have to be like that, House. All I asked was a simple question."

Gasping for the breath that had been withheld from him for too long, House managed to get out a hoarse whisper, designed to appease Wilson long enough to give him a chance to do…_something_.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

"You should be," Wilson reminded him, and the disdain in his voice made House wince to hear it. "Now…I'm gonna ask you again…and you're gonna answer me. Unless you need another lesson…"

"No," House whispered, shaking his head, his eyes closed. "I don't…"

"Where were you?"

House felt his stomach lurch at the hard, dangerous tone in Wilson's voice. He swallowed hard, weighing his words, his voice still breathless and halting as Wilson leaned across his torso, limiting the air he could draw in. "Just…went to get…something to eat…sorry…thought I'd be…back…before you got here…"

"Well you were wrong, weren't you?" Wilson snapped, utterly unsympathetic.

He gripped House's hair, jerking his head back again, much more roughly than before, in a deliberate attempt to reassert his power in the wake of House's resistance. He lifted himself up only long enough to plant his knee painfully against House's sternum. Pressing down slowly, his smile widened when House gasped in pain and fear.

"Now, do you think you can behave yourself long enough for us to have an adult conversation about this? Or do I need to treat you like the pathetic, rebellious _child _you keep acting like?"

Wilson's tone was scathing, full of contempt, and House fought against a rising sense of shame at his words, reminiscent of words he had heard many years ago. He shook his head rapidly, his one free hand rising in a pleading gesture.

"Good." Wilson nodded, finally backing off. He stood on the floor beside the bed and glared down at House with an expectant look. "Sit up and look at me," he demanded.

House struggled to pull himself up to a sitting position on the bed, his chest heaving with deep, desperate breaths as he struggled to return his breathing pattern to normal. Hazy spots of color danced around the edges of his vision. Carefully, he let his legs fall over the side of the bed as he sat up to face Wilson, who was beginning to look impatient.

Wilson gave him a grim smile and nod of approval, and took a step backward to give him room before ordering, "Stand up."

Not sure if he even _could _stand up, not sure if his shaking legs would support him, only sure that he had no choice but to stand, or risk another violent outburst from Wilson, House cautiously rose to his feet, feeling vulnerable and unstable without his cane. His anxious gaze darted past Wilson, mentally calculating the possibility of getting to it before Wilson could stop him.

The possibility was…well, basically nonexistent.

"Hey!" Wilson snapped, and House's eyes quickly returned to his face in alarm, realizing that he had momentarily stopped listening. "I'm talking to you!"

Wilson slapped him hard, an open palm against his cheek that made him stumble. Before he could fall back onto the bed, Wilson caught his arm, using his free hand to deliver a brutal punch to his stomach, then releasing his arm to allow him to fall to his knees.

Immediately Wilson was crouched in front of him, gripping the hair at the side of his head and slamming his head backward. House winced, preparing for the impact, his mind racing with fears of another coma – one from which he might not awaken, this time.

Fortunately, the only thing behind him was the mattress.

Still, the impact was dizzying, and Wilson's grip on his hair, shaking him, his snarling face inches from House's own, all served to make him feel dazed and disoriented.

"You will _listen to me_ when I talk to you!"

Wilson's voice was low and trembling with rage, sending a shiver of apprehension down House's spine. Moving closer, his other hand at House's throat, Wilson pushed his head back – not quite choking him, but tight enough to be frightening.

Although House's hands were free, he now knew better than to fight back. Utterly unarmed, and too dizzy from the blows he had taken to the head and lack of oxygen to trust his own reflexes in a fight, he focused for the moment on appeasement, on getting Wilson to back off enough to give him a chance. House nodded quickly, silently indicating his submission.

"Now let's try this again, shall we?" Wilson's voice held a nasty streak of menace cloaked with a deceptive gentleness. " You're gonna get up, and we're gonna go in the living room and have a nice little chat. There's something I want to show you. Does that sound good to you, Gregory, huh? You think you can behave yourself long enough for that?"

House nodded as best he could against the cruel hand at his throat, and the other still fisted painfully in his hair, his eyes closed to shut out the nightmare image of his former friend, glaring at him through dark eyes glittering with hate. The use of his first name was not lost on him; it brought to mind one of few people who ever called him by it – as did the harsh, authoritative tone and words Wilson used.

"I…I'm sorry," House whispered, barely mouthing the words, unable to draw breath as Wilson's grip on his throat tightened. "Please…I'm sorry…"

"Too late," Wilson snarled, though he finally released him with one last shove against the mattress behind him, before rising to his feet.

House cringed, knowing that Wilson was referring to more than the incident at hand, and that there was nothing he could do now to undo the damage that had been done – no way to bring back either Amber… or Wilson as he had once known him. Wilson had lost it, crossed more than one line over the past few weeks – and all at once, House knew beyond any doubt that he could not allow him to cross the next.

Outside of this room, he knew that there would be a host of potential weapons at Wilson's disposal. Whatever it was that Wilson wanted to show him, he was fairly certain he did not want to see. He had to somehow regain some control over the situation.

He had to find a way to _survive_ this.

"Get up," Wilson ordered. "_Now._"

His voice hoarse and soft with pain, still gasping for breath, House kept his eyes down, his tone submissive, carefully, uncharacteristically humble as he presented a reasonable request to his quite unreasonable friend.

"I…I'm not sure I…I can. Can I…can I please have my cane?" He hesitated, swallowing hard, his voice trembling with emotion as he added, barely a whisper, "_Please_?"

It was that final word in that tone so foreign to House's voice, that made Wilson consent to the request. Staring down at his kneeling friend through hard eyes, black as onyx, Wilson allowed a slight smile of approval to cross his lips. He crossed the room and picked up the cane, slowly approaching House, his mouth twitching slightly as he smirked in satisfaction.

"Now you're starting to get it," he remarked with a nod. "You'll speak to me with respect, or you won't get anything from me, House. You're gonna learn to watch your mouth."

As he spoke, he held the cane out by its handle, the gesture almost imperious as he stood, tall and towering over House, still huddled by the bed on his knees. House reached up tentatively, glancing uncertainly into Wilson's eyes, before gripping its base in both hands and pulling it down, placing the end of it on the floor and rocking it slightly, as if to steady it, testing its weight in his hands.

"I…I think…" he began, his voice still halting and hesitant, his eyes still downcast as Wilson released the handle of the cane and just watched him, waiting for him to go on with a single raised brow. "…I think…you should know by now…"

House looked up then, his head still lowered, solemn, piercing eyes locking onto Wilson's with a sharp gaze that was the only warning the younger doctor got.

"…you should worry more when I _do _watch my mouth."

As he spoke, House shoved the cane upward at an angle with all his strength, its handle connecting brutally with Wilson's groin, and doubling him over in agony. Wilson dropped to his knees on the floor, holding his hands protectively over his injuries. House drew the cane back in a double-handed grip, swinging it like a bat, this time connecting with Wilson's face.

Wilson collapsed to the floor, still conscious, moaning with pain, but incapacitated – for the moment.

Trembling violently with the emotional and physical impact of what he had just done, House pulled himself shakily to his feet. It took longer than usual, and a much greater effort, but between the bed beside him and the cane in his hand, he finally managed to get to his feet.

By the time he did, Wilson was already stirring, his hands clenching and unclenching on the floor as he tried to summon the strength to rise.

_Gotta hurry…might not have much time…_

House made his way as quickly as possible toward the bedroom door, the living room beyond…and the telephone waiting there. As he slipped out of his bedroom and the phone came into sight across the room, he heard Wilson's groan of pained fury from the floor of his bedroom. The younger man raised anguished, angry eyes to glare at him and snarl out a menacing warning.

"I'll kill you, House…I'll _kill _you!"


	10. Chapter 10

House stumbled as he made his way hurriedly across the living room, which had never seemed so large as it did in that moment, with Wilson's furious voice echoing threats in his ears

House stumbled as he made his way hurriedly across the living room, which had never seemed so large as it did in that moment, with Wilson's furious voice echoing threats in his ears.

"If you take one _step _out that door," the younger man snarled, and House heard the frightening change in the sound indicating that Wilson had gotten to his feet. "I'll kill you, House! Don't you _dare _walk out that door!"

House's mind went back to another time, years ago, when he had heard almost exactly the same words.

"_Don't you walk away from me, boy! You take one more step and you better take it running, because if I catch you…"_

That time – House had walked out the door.

This time – he didn't.

He stopped at the end table beside the sofa, leaning heavily on his cane and gasping for breath. He did his best to balance, leaning slightly against the end table, as he reached down with his good hand to pick up the telephone receiver, his fingers trembling as he struggled to press the keys.

During the fight with Wilson, he had done his best to ignore the pain in his injured left hand. The fight for survival had driven the worst of the pain from his mind. Now, however, his hand was throbbing. He tried his best to ignore it.

He had bigger problems at the moment.

He glanced anxiously toward the bedroom door, and his gaze crossed the coffee table.

Cuddy's cell phone was sitting there.

He remembered Wilson's words in the bedroom.

"_There's something in the living room I want to show you…"_

He felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him. Wilson must have been furious at the sight of Cuddy's cell phone on his coffee table. He had already known that House was lying – or at least evading – about where he had been. He must have intended to confront House about it once they were in the living room – and House could not imagine that such a confrontation would have ended well.

Wilson's appearance in the doorway between the living room and bedroom drew House abruptly out of his thoughts. He leaned against the doorjamb, his breathing ragged and labored. Barely on his feet, still obviously in a lot of pain, he glared at House with deadly intent in his eyes.

"Put that down," Wilson gasped. There was a frightening coldness in his voice despite the weak, rasping sound of it. "_Now_."

House's hand clenched around the receiver, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Though a part of him wanted to, he did not back down. He held Wilson's gaze firmly, and made no move to put down the telephone.

"Yeah," he observed, his voice soft, the slightest glimmer of an ironic smile playing about the edges of his mouth. "You look real scary right about now."

"I'll be fine in about…two minutes," Wilson pointed out, still breathless as he limped a few steps into the living room, teetering precariously for a moment when he stopped. A cruel smile on his face through the pain, he added with a careless shrug, "You'll still be a cripple. Do the math."

"I don't need two minutes." House ignored the malice in Wilson's eyes and voice, as well as the rather unoriginal dig about his disability. "I've already dialed two digits – all I need is one more."

Wilson's eyes widened as he steadied himself with a hand on House's bookcase, straightening up slightly as his gaze locked onto House's – appraising, as if trying to decide if House would actually carry out his threat.

"First thing I'll say is your name – but I don't even _have_ to say anything," House went on, his voice stronger and more even than he had expected. "It takes four seconds for the 911 dispatcher to trace the call."

"Takes a little longer for anybody to actually get here," Wilson countered, and House noticed with alarm that Wilson's voice was growing steadier. He straightened as he spoke. "You'd be dead before the cops showed up."

"But they _would _show up." Despite the rising fears awakened by Wilson's words, House's gaze did not falter. "They'd show up, find me in whatever state you leave me – and have only your name to go on. Wonder how _that'd_ turn out." He paused, drawing courage from the flash of fear he saw in Wilson's eyes. "Think carefully," he advised, his voice quiet and certain. "Have you covered _all_ your tracks? Or were you just counting on me to keep my mouth shut? 'Cause you know – if you're sure you're _ready_ to face the cops – all I've gotta do is hit _one…key_…"

Wilson was standing up straight now, no longer needing the bookcase for support – but he seemed frozen in place, his wide eyes fastened on the receiver in House's hand, his finger hovering over the "one" key.

House could almost see his mind racing, his eyes darting between the receiver to the door, between the place where he stood, and where House was across the room. He knew that Wilson was trying to gauge whether or not he could get to House before he could press the key – and if not, whether he would be able to get the phone hung up again before the 911 operator could trace the call.

"Four seconds," House repeated, his voice barely a whisper, yet echoing between them in the stillness of the room. "Think you can make it? Are you _sure _you can make it?"

Wilson's breath quickened slightly as he edged a step nearer to House, powerless fury raging in his eyes.

Powerless – because they both knew that House had the advantage.

For the moment.

"Stop right there," House ordered, his voice quiet but harder, as he pressed his advantage. "Don't come any closer to me, or I'll do it."

"Then why haven't you done it already?" Wilson's voice held a quiet triumph as he took yet another step, his smile widening when House still did not complete his emergency call – and the gap between them (and between Wilson and those precious four seconds) grew slightly smaller. "If you're going to call the cops on me…then do it."

"_You gonna call the cops on me, Greg? You gonna tell 'em what I did to you? Tell 'em what you did to deserve it while you're at it! Go on! Here's the phone! Call if you wanna!"_

House closed his eyes for a moment, mentally warring against the fears of the present and the memories of his past, before opening them again with alarm to see that Wilson had advanced another couple of steps while he was distracted.

"You willing to risk your career – everything you've worked for your entire life – on the off chance that I won't?" House strove to keep his voice even and firm – and mostly succeeded. "It's a lot to risk, just to teach me a lesson."

"You won't do it." Wilson's voice was defiant, but trembling slightly, as he edged slightly nearer.

"Yeah. I will. If you move another step toward me."

Wilson froze.

"I've had enough," House went on, his trembling easing as his tactics seemed to be effective. "I may be an addict – but you've become one, too. And I don't know about you, but _me – me, _I'm not gonna be _your _enabler." He smirked at the irony of Wilson's own psycho-babble being thrown back in his face, and with such brutal accuracy. "I guess I'm just a better friend than that."

"_You _were _never _my _friend_!" Wilson spat out, furious at the none-too-subtle accusation in House's sarcastic words.

House flinched slightly, but did not yield. "That may be true," he admitted quietly. "But you _were _mine. For a long time, and a very good one. And – that's why I'm not going to let you do this to yourself anymore." He paused, allowing his words the time they needed to make a genuine impact, before continuing, finally, utterly in control.

"So here's how it's going to work. You're going to leave my house now. You're not going to come back until you're ready to treat me like a human being instead of like your own personal punching bag. If you don't – I'm going to dial that last digit right now and announce your name to the operator. _Then, _when you realize you're on the verge of getting caught and you run like hell – I'm going to hang up the phone and call Cuddy, and tell her everything. You'll lose your job, your reputation, possibly even your freedom – everything."

House took a breath, pausing to take in Wilson's terrified look. Before he could go on, Wilson broke in, a slightly frantic note to his voice.

"You don't wanna do that, House. You have not even _begun _to see what I can do to you – what I _will _do to you if you continue to disrespect…"

"_Stop_ talking to me like you're my damned father!" House broke in, his voice shaking with fury. He kicked out at the only thing near at hand – his cane – and it fell over with a dramatic clatter. "_He never broke me, and neither will you_!"

Wilson froze, and a tense, profound silence fell between them. He finally looked away, at least having the good grace to look ashamed for just a moment, now that House had figured out how Wilson had been playing his own childhood trauma against him.

"Your choice," House said quietly at last. He held Wilson's gaze with more courage than he felt when the oncologist looked up at him again. "What's it gonna be?"

Wilson seemed speechless at first, his entire body trembling with barely suppressed rage. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth in what appeared to be the beginnings of a threat, before closing it again in frustration. He moved as if to take a step, then stopped, breathing out a deep, shaky breath as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

The tension stretched out between them as Wilson wrestled with his anger, his desire to hurt House for all that he had cost him – and his knowledge that House could, in a single moment, destroy everything he had spent his life achieving. There was a chance that he could stop the older man before he could make the call – but there was just as good a chance that he would _not _be able to stop him.

"Fine," Wilson finally whispered, his dark eyes glittering with bitter malice. "I'll go."

He stood there a moment longer, glaring at House, clearly wanting to attack him again but not daring. Finally, he turned his back on his former friend, stalking toward the door in wide, furious strides. When he reached the door, however, House's quiet voice stopped him before he could step outside.

"Wait."

Wilson turned to face House, his hand on the door, vicious resentment mingled with the question in his eyes.

House's expressive blue eyes were sorrowful as he nodded toward Wilson's pocket and said softly, "Your key."

Wilson's eyes widened as he squared his shoulders, his mouth open to protest.

"Or I call. I need your key. Now."

Silently fuming, Wilson thrust his hand into the pocket of his pants, taking out a plain key ring with a single key on it. In a childish gesture of impotent fury, he hurled the key in House's direction, missing his mark entirely in his anger and sending it flying past the older man and against the wall on the other side of the room.

House did not react to the violent gesture. He simply nodded his approval as he said, "Thanks." He was quiet a moment before adding, "Now get out of my house."

When Wilson slammed the door behind him, House waited a few moments, afraid to set down the phone, for fear that Wilson might come bursting through the door again, just waiting for his chance to ambush him and hurt him again. Until his door was locked, he could not be sure that Wilson would not come back.

After a few moments, House summoned his courage. Still clutching the cordless telephone receiver in his hand, he lunged toward the door without his cane, trembling fingers scrambling over the lock and deadbolt, fastening them firmly into place. Once the door was secure, House leaned forward, resting his palms and forehead against the door, drawing in several deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves.

He turned around, bracing his back against the door as he slid to the floor, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. After a few moments, he raised the receiver in his hand, dialing a familiar number and lifting the telephone to his ear. It rang three times before he heard a click, followed by the voice he had hoped to hear – though he still had no idea why he wanted so badly to hear it.

"Hello?"

"Cuddy." House's voice came out in a hoarse whisper, still tremulous and uneven.

A moment's silence passed, before Cuddy's concerned voice replied. "House? What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," he answered, cringing at the tremor in his voice. "I…you just…left your cell phone here, so…so I figured I'd call you and…tell you. You know, for when I forget to bring it with me tomorrow. Wanna be sure you know to yell at me about it. Give me an excuse to…to ogle the twins again."

Cuddy was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, cautious. "House – are you all right?"

A lengthy, awkward silence followed her question, as House struggled for the strength to give the answer he wanted to give her.

_Yes…yes, I'm fine…he's gone, and he's not coming back, and I'm fine…it's so easy, you pathetic loser, just_ say it! _You're fine!_

"…No."

"I'm coming over there."

"No, there's…no need. I won't forget your phone. That was – was just an attempt to fit a clever and completely inappropriate sexual innuendo into a casual telephone conversation…"

"See you in ten minutes, House." Cuddy's tone brooked no room for argument.

To his horror, House felt the tiny pinpricks of tears of relief at the backs of his eyes, and closed them again, swallowing hard past the knot in his throat. He nodded, though he knew she couldn't see the gesture, as he whispered, "Okay. Cuddy…"

When he did not go on, her voice pressed gently, "What, House?"

He hesitated just a moment over two simple words that left her stunned, then hung up the phone before he could hear her reaction to them.

"Th-thank you."


	11. Chapter 11

Cuddy had promised to be there in ten minutes, but House really expected that he had better than twenty before she would arrive

Cuddy had promised to be there in ten minutes, but House expected that he had better than twenty before she would arrive. Her house was only a ten-minute drive across town from his; but if he knew Lisa Cuddy, she would have a dozen tiny rituals to take care of before she left on such short notice – lights turned off, doors locked, alarm system set, among others he couldn't begin to imagine.

At any rate, House was fairly certain that he could safely allow himself ten minutes to regain his breath and try to settle his nerves, and then another ten to get to the bathroom and get cleaned up. He figured it would be no problem to be seated on the sofa, with his cane and hopefully a drink within easy reach, by the time she knocked on his door.

Cuddy arrived exactly seven minutes after hanging up the phone – and House was still sitting on the floor in front of the door.

The knock at the door made his stomach lurch, suddenly convinced that it was not Cuddy but Wilson, come back to finish the job he had started. Instinctively he pushed himself sideways away from the door, staring up at it in dread, his throat dry and his heart pounding with terror.

"Who is it?" he called out, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

Cuddy's soft, feminine voice swiftly quelled his fears. "It's me, House." A slight rattling of the doorknob. "The door's locked."

House stifled a bitter chuckle of mockery at his own reactions, as well as her statement of the obvious. He reached back toward the door, stretching to reach the lock. "Come in," he called out quietly, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice. He tried to calm his breathing, not wanting Cuddy to see or hear how shaken he still was.

She had already heard more than enough on the phone.

Cuddy pushed the door open, scanning the living room with a puzzled frown before she finally found him, a mere foot away from where she stood. Her eyes widened in stunned dismay when she saw the shape he was in. Quickly closing the door, she crouched down to wrap one arm around his shoulders, sliding the other under his bent knees in an attempt to help him rise.

"House! What happened?" she demanded, her voice strained with the effort.

House pulled uneasily away from her well-meaning hands, shaking his head as he held up a hand in protest. "It's no big deal," he assured her, hating the fact that his voice was still shaking. "I…surprised a burglar. That's all."

"Oh my God, are you all right? House…did he hurt you?" Cuddy's eyes were wide with dismay, and the concern he read on her face as she crouched at his side, hovering protectively, was almost his undoing.

"I'll…be fine," he insisted as he looked away, unable to both hold her gaze and keep up the tattered remains of his façade. "If you could just…my…my cane…" He nodded toward the discarded cane, lying under the end table, before glancing up at her uncertainly and adding, "Please?"

Cuddy blinked, startled by his use of the word, before recovering enough to nod. "Of course."

She retrieved the cane and returned to stand in front of House, meeting his upturned, questioning gaze with far too much sympathy in her eyes. He wasn't used to it – not from her; he was more accustomed to indignation and anger blazing out at him from those wide blue eyes that were now looking at him as if he was one of Wilson's pathetic little cancer patients.

He hated it; it was irritating and embarrassing – and dangerously close to bringing him to tears.

When Cuddy reached out to take his hand, pressing it firmly over the handle of his cane, her hand lingering over his with a warmth and gentleness he had not expected – House had to look away, feeling exposed and vulnerable under her searching gaze. He knew she had a dozen questions, and he did not want to answer any of them.

But Cuddy asked nothing as she helped House to his feet, making sure his footing was secure before removing her arms from around him. Once he was standing, she murmured, "Good…let's get you sitting down, okay?"

She walked with him to the sofa, helping him to sit slowly and painfully, and then sitting down beside him. Although her hands were folded neatly in her lap, she fidgeted agitatedly, as if she couldn't quite find the right words to say. House felt unbearably awkward, his downcast gaze roving over the room, taking in everything _except _Cuddy's face.

After a few interminable moments, just to dispel the tension, he leaned forward and picked up her cell phone from the coffee table. Glancing up at her for just an instant, he tossed it into her restless hands.

Cuddy's heart ached at the vulnerability she saw in that single instantaneous glance. After looking at the phone for a moment, she set it back down on the coffee table.

"Thank you," she said softly. She hesitated a moment before adding, "That's not why I'm here."

"I'm fine, Cuddy," House sighed, leaning slowly, painfully back against the sofa, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "The intruder is gone, and I'm safe. So why don't you just…"

"What'd he take?"

House froze for a moment before swallowing. "I…I walked in on him," he attempted finally. "Startled him. He ran off without getting anything."

Cuddy raised a single brow, her tone making it clear she was unconvinced.

"But only _after _beating the crap out of you? You'd think once you were down, he'd have taken whatever he could grab."

"Do you see any marks?" House countered, irritation in his voice as he finally raised his head and glared at her. "He barely touched me! I'm fine, okay?"

"I found you on the _floor_. And you couldn't get up on your own," Cuddy reminded him, incredulous. "And actually, I _do_ see a mark."

She reached toward his cheek, where the faint traces of a bruise were beginning to form, beneath a red mark that looked suspiciously like a hand-print. "I think I'd better look you over, anyway, before I go – make sure the burglar didn't hurt you too badly."

_But a burglar wouldn't _slap_ him in the face…a burglar would use his fist…something more likely to incapacitate…a slap is insulting…deliberate…personal…_

"Don't…"

House's flinch when her hand neared his face only served to amplify her concerns. Frowning, Cuddy studied House's trapped, embarrassed expression.

"Oh, stop it!" she scolded impatiently, though what she really wanted to do was to cry. "I'm your GP, House! You've just been attacked, and I'm _going_ to look you over, whether you want me to or not." Relieved to have found something to _do_, something to distract from the awkwardness of their non-conversation, Cuddy sat up straighter on the sofa, shifting nearer to House. "Now take off your shirt."

House raised a single brow in her direction, meeting her gaze finally, now that she had given him something to work with. "Always knew you wanted to ravage me."

Cuddy was not amused. "Take it off," she commanded again, the expression in her eyes solemn and determined.

"Should I call the cops now, or _after _you molest me?" House smirked at her, making no move to obey her order.

Cuddy saw clearly that his amusement did not reach his eyes, but she grinned back at him, going with it. As usual, House's inappropriate sense of humor was serving to dispel the tension between them – and if she was ever going to get _anything_ out of him about what had happened tonight, that was going to be a necessary factor.

"Depends on whether or not you _want_ to be molested," she shot back. Her smile faded as she asked without pausing, "Why haven't you?"

House frowned, confused. "Why haven't I what now?"

"Called the police." Cuddy paused. "If there was a burglar – why'd you call _me_ – but not the police?"

That trapped expression again. House looked away, his smile fading, his mood shifting. He was clearly troubled by how easily he had allowed himself to be caught in a lie. His thought processes were usually far too clear to allow such a thing to happen. He shook his head as she moved in slightly closer, raising his hands in front of him as if to fend her off.

"House…" she tried, a pleading note in her voice.

"Cuddy…stop," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he pressed back against the sofa, as far from her as he could get. "Just…don't push this, okay? I don't want to talk about this…"

"I'm just trying to help you, House!" Her frustration was clear. "Please – won't you just talk to me? How can I help you if you won't talk to me?"

"I never asked for your help," House muttered, his shoulders tense and slightly trembling, his gaze stubbornly averted.

Cuddy knew if she pointed out that _he _had called her, if she made him feel embarrassed or self-conscious about it – he would never reach out to her again.

"Just go, okay?" House went on, still not looking at her. "You've got your cell phone. So just go on, and…and I'll see you tomorrow morning. Okay?" His voice was not harsh or angry, but rather almost pleading.

He did not resent her attempts to reach out to him; he simply could not tolerate them.

She felt a hard knot of tears forming in her throat, knew that she was on the verge of breaking down from sheer frustration. She also knew that he would be as uncomfortable with _her_ open emotions as he would be with his own. If there was still a chance of getting through to him at all, she was going to have to hold it together.

"I…I want to check you out. Make sure you're okay," she reiterated, her voice quiet and carefully even, with just a hint of a tremor.

"No," House answered simply, not looking at her.

Cuddy sighed, nodding her acceptance of his decision – and then sat back on the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest as she settled in more comfortably.

House looked up at her sharply then, frowning. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, a trace of anger in his voice.

"I'm not going anywhere, House," she informed him calmly. "I'm not moving from this couch – and I don't think you're in any shape to move me."

House glared at her, his jaw clenching with frustration, forgetting about his troubled thoughts for a moment in his outrage at her refusal. "I asked you to go. This is my home; that means you _should_ go. We both know _I_ don't care about this kind of social behavioral norm, but you usually do…"

"Tonight, I don't."

A moment's silence followed, as House tried to figure out her angle, without success.

A moment later, she revealed it.

"However…I _am_ willing to make a deal with you."

House let out a weary sigh of defeat, already prepared to hate her suggestion. "Not interested..."

"I'll stop asking questions about what happened tonight. If I say a single word that you don't like, you can tell me to shut up – and I will."

House froze, lips parted to object, but so far there was nothing to object to. "I'm listening," he said finally.

"_If_…" Cuddy continued, leaning forward and holding his gaze, "…you let me look you over. Make sure you're _physically_ okay. Let me do that – and I'll let you repress to your cold, stony little heart's content."

Cuddy waited, forcing herself to breathe, not wanting to give away her true intentions. She hoped to find some clue as to what had been happening to House lately during the exam; and maybe – just _maybe_ – use the extra purchased time to find a way to get House to open up a little. She kept her expression professional, calmly expectant, as he considered her offer. Finally, he met her gaze with a smirk – and Cuddy relaxed.

His smirk told her that House thought he had won – and that _she_ really _had_. She suppressed a triumphant smile as House gave her his response.

"You're on."


	12. Chapter 12

"Knew you had ulterior motives

"Knew you had ulterior motives. I agree to take off my clothes, and suddenly you don't wanna talk anymore."

House tried for a grin that didn't quite make it. Cuddy noticed with alarm that his voice shook slightly, his breathing short and labored. Although he reached for the buttons on the front of his shirt, he made no move to actually unfasten them.

She frowned when she saw the way his fingers were trembling, as well as the drawn, pale appearance of his face as he stared down at the buttons. Apparently he was in more pain than she had realized. Throughout dinner, she had noticed that he seemed very distracted and a bit unsteady, but now she realized with dismay that he had simply been doing his best to hide how much he was hurting.

_Shouldn't surprise you…it's what he always does…should have noticed…_

She couldn't bring herself to respond to his attempt at light-hearted banter. Everything about his tense, tremulous posture, the painfully slow movements of his hands, told her that despite his comment, he dreaded letting her see his body.

"Come on, House," she said softly after a moment, though there was no impatience in her understanding voice. "Take off your shirt…" She forced a weak smile to her lips, trying to lighten her tone as she warned, "…or I start talking."

His return smile was just as weak, and he opened his mouth as if to make another smart remark – but then just sighed, the smile fading quickly into a self-conscious expression. Reluctantly he reached again for the buttons, cringing slightly when he saw that both his hands were visibly shaking.

He was having serious second thoughts about this deal – but he had already made it, and it was too late to turn back now.

He fumbled awkwardly over the top button, the aching fingers on his swollen, throbbing left hand refusing to cooperate. He gasped involuntarily as he applied a bit too much pressure in his impatience, and a bolt of electric pain shot through the shattered hand. Stars of color danced in his vision, and he struggled not to black out from the pain, leaning his head back against the sofa behind him.

He raised his head again, sensing that Cuddy was much nearer than she had been. House looked up in surprise, just as she knelt down on the floor in front of him, between his parted legs, leaning forward. He swallowed hard, eyes wide as he watched her gentle, agile fingers move swiftly down the row of buttons. She met his eyes with concern—no trace of anything more—her tone light, as she teased him.

"No comments about me being on my knees in front of you, okay? I'm only doing it so I can undress you."

Her pretty half-smirk told him that she knew how her words could be taken, and had in fact chosen them for just that reason, playing along with the flirtatious little game they had been playing for years. He attempted to return her teasing smile, but suddenly felt nauseated, overheated – trapped – as he thought of what Cuddy was about to reveal.

After the first incident—the one House had blamed on an irate patient—Wilson had avoided leaving marks on House's face. However, he had taken no such care with the rest of his body, well aware that House would do whatever he could to cover up the daily abuse he was enduring. Again and again Wilson had vented his grief and rage on House, leaving him bruised and bleeding in the aftermath. House had simply taken to wearing long sleeves every day, doing his best to hide the evidence.

Now Cuddy was about to uncover it all.

_But she can't talk about it_, House reminded himself, anxious. _That's the deal. And I'll let her look all she wants if she'll just never bring it up again…if she'll just let it go…_

His overheated skin tingled where she touched it as Cuddy carefully pushed the blue button-down shirt back off his shoulders, her fingertips brushing lightly against his forearms. Her gentle touch – the first he had felt in a very long time – filled him with a swelling tumult of conflicted emotions. A pair of dark voices whispered in unison in his mind, causing his heart to pound and his breath to quicken with apprehension.

_She'll know…she'll figure it out…she'll see what he did to you…and she'll know that it's _your fault_…you don't deserve her kindness, anyway…she doesn't owe you a thing after the way you've treated her…pathetic, worthless, useless piece of…_

"House?"

Cuddy's voice was soft and uncertain, a frown of concern creasing her brow as she studied his face. Suddenly aware of her scrutiny, House made a conscious effort to slow his breathing, to settle his nerves and school his features back under control. His head was swimming and he felt sick to his stomach, but he fought it back, struggling to present some semblance of normalcy to Cuddy's eyes.

"Yes?" He spoke the word as if puzzled by the worry he saw on her face, one brow raised in a dubious expression – but his voice was low and hoarse, trembling slightly, barely over a whisper.

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, her blue gaze piercing as she searched his eyes – but then she let out her breath in an almost imperceptible sigh before replying simply, "Lift up your arms."

House complied, allowing her to strip the grey cotton t-shirt from his chest. His mouth was dry and his heart racing at the thought of her seeing the wreckage that had been left of his battered body. He held his breath, steeling himself for her reaction, fighting off panic.

_If she finds out…if she knows…Wilson will be so angry…but it doesn't matter if he's angry because he's gone and he's not coming back and I'm safe now…but what if I'm _not_? What if he comes back? What if…?_

"Oh, House…"

Cuddy's whisper of dismay drew his attention, and he cringed inwardly at the expression of horror in her eyes, as she drew in her breath in a soft hiss. Her mouth was twisted into a sympathetic grimace, her eyes widening as she took in the damage he had sustained. But she said nothing about it, holding to her word, and instead just rose to her feet, holding out her hands to House expectantly.

He glanced between her face and her hands, uncertain.

"Up," she clarified, slight impatience in her voice. "Need your pants off. Easier standing up."

House nodded. He had agreed to this. But his face felt heated; he could not meet her gaze as he imagined her reaction when she saw the lower half of his body. If she found the sight of his torso alarming – well, he didn't want to imagine what she might think of the state of his legs.

Wilson had focused an awful lot of attention on House's damaged leg.

"Now, you go ahead and take those off," Cuddy instructed once she had helped him to his feet, her tone all at once the pleasant, professional tone of a doctor. "Go ahead and leave your underwear. I'm…assuming everything's okay in that department?"

Thankfully, it was. House nodded.

"Good," Cuddy gave him a smile. "I'm gonna go ransack your bathroom cupboards for supplies. When I get back, I expect you to be more than _half_-naked."

When House nodded again, she turned and started toward the bathroom. Suddenly, she stopped, turning back to face him. House froze, his fingers hovering over the top of his jeans, as she moved in closer, smiling warmly and reassuringly into his eyes as she reached down and gently pushed his trembling hands away, unfastening the button at the top of his jeans herself.

There was an unexpected intimacy to the simple act that caught them both off guard. He met her eyes for a long, intense moment, neither sure of what to say, before she nodded slightly and whispered simply, "I'll be right back."

House watched her go, wondering at the fact that something that ordinarily would have humiliated him – needing Cuddy's help just to get undressed – became painless because of the warmth and tenderness he saw in her eyes.

Their relationship had always been complicated, but they had been friends for a very long time.

And a friend – well, that was something House desperately needed right then.

_God, I hope I know what I'm doing…_

Cuddy fought to steady her hands as she gathered House's meager supply of first aid creams and bandages from the cupboards in his bathroom. She blinked away tears, struggling to regain control of her emotions before she faced him again, well aware that at the first sign of actual pity from her, House would close himself off, becoming more resistant to her help than he already was.

Carrying her armload back to the couch, Cuddy dumped it unceremoniously onto the middle cushion, before turning her attention to House, steeling herself for what she would see. If the injuries to his chest and back were any indication, she was in for a long, harrowing evening.

Despite her efforts, however, she was utterly unprepared.

He stood in his underwear, looking awkward and uncomfortable, his arms folded over his stomach in a subconsciously defensive gesture. Horrified by what she was seeing, Cuddy realized with a sinking heart that the fresh bruises, the ones she assumed were from the attack that night, were only the beginning. House's entire body was covered in other marks, in various stages of healing.

She felt a chill go down her spine as she realized that, had she been examining anyone but House, she would have immediately assumed that she was dealing with a case of domestic violence.

_But this is_ House_! It can't be_… Everything she knew about this man rose up in protest against the concept. _There's no way he'd ever let anyone do this to him – and he's not even in a relationship! It's impossible! It – it _has_ to be impossible…_

But the evidence said otherwise.

Doing her best not to allow her reaction to show on her face, Cuddy gently reached out to touch House's arms, pushing backward in a silent command for him to sit back down on the couch behind him. He complied, equally silent, his gaze carefully averted as she began to run her hands lightly over his arms, his chest and back, down the length of his legs, inspecting him for any broken bones or other internal injury.

"So," she remarked after a moment, breaking the tense silence in a mild voice, "your apartment gets broken into often, I assume?"

House was quiet for a moment, and she assumed he was trying to come up with a smart remark. However, after a moment he replied softly, "No questions. Remember? That's the deal." There was a quiet desperation in his voice.

Cuddy nodded, swallowing back a sob. She knelt down on the floor in front of him again to give herself better access to his injuries.

Carefully, she unwound the bandages around his left hand, checking the setting, and then wrapped clean bandages around the injured appendage. House winced a few times – and every time Cuddy felt a sharp pang of guilt for causing him any more pain than he was already in – but it could not be helped.

Once she had finished with his hand, she worked over him in silence for a long time, wending her way slowly and painstakingly down from his face. The areas where the skin was broken, she treated with antibiotic creams, and then she bound them with soft bandages. She couldn't do much for the bruising except to allow it to heal, though she intended to get him on a course of antibiotics immediately the next morning. As she worked, Cuddy mentally catalogued every mark.

She was stalling.

Finally, she made herself look at the part of House's body she had been avoiding, the part that had taken the worst of the damage – his right thigh. The bruising there was so dark that it was almost black in places, and the skin surrounding the scar was torn in several places. Cuddy cringed just to look at it. Someone had systematically, deliberately inflicted pain on that very spot, over and over again.

_This is abuse!_ her mind screamed at her. _Whoever did this knows him…knows where he's weakest, most vulnerable…whoever did this was deliberately trying to hurt him…and badly…but…why?_

As Cuddy treated his injuries, House was acutely aware of the soft, gentle brush of her hands over his injured flesh. The tender compassion with which she touched him, the tears of concern he saw in her eyes every time he ventured a glance up at her face – they struck a dangerous chord within his affection-starved heart. As the hour wore on, House found his emotions floating steadily ever nearer to the surface. He struggled to keep them in check, not wanting Cuddy to see any more of his weakness than she already had.

He was almost glad for the physical pain – his constant companion always, but moreso these past weeks – to distract him from the way her soft but capable hands left trails of tender heat in their wake, leaving him feeling unbearably exposed, and yet desperately thirsting for more of the gentle contact he had been without for so long.

He glanced up at her uncertainly when she finally stopped touching him, hoping his disappointment didn't show on his face.

"House," she began hesitantly. "I need to…to look at your leg, and…and I know it's gonna…"

"…hurt like hell. I know," House sighed with a nod of resignation. "Do whatever you have to do. Then get out and let me get some sleep."

He had to get rid of her – and fast, before her compassion broke through the last of his fragile defenses.

Cuddy ignored the resentment she heard in his voice. Still reluctant to actually touch the worst of House's injuries, she found herself stalling again. At least she had a valid medical question this time.

"How long since your last Vicodin?"

She hadn't expected House to look so uncomfortable at the question. Ordinarily he was irritatingly unrepentant about his drug habit. Now, however, he swallowed, averting his gaze. He shrugged, muttering, "Dunno…'s been a while…"

Cuddy raised a single, skeptical brow. "A while as in…_one_ hour? Or two?"

House was quiet for a long time before he whispered, still not looking at her, "…Four…"

Cuddy started to relax, thinking that it had been long enough for House to take another.

"…days…"

Cuddy froze. She could not possibly have heard him correctly.

"Wait…House…four _days_? Since your last _Vicodin_?"

House lowered his head, nodding quietly.

Cuddy paused, considering. "Okay," she remarked flatly after a moment, "care to explain that one to me?"

"No questions…"

"About tonight. That was the deal. Apparently, this question is about four days ago." Cuddy's sharp tone softened as she leaned forward, resting one gentle hand on House's left knee, and raising the other to his cheek, turning his face toward her. "House…why haven't you been taking your pills?"

House flinched at her touch, but did not pull away, though he still refused to meet her eyes. "Ran out," he answered softly, a slight tremor in his voice.

She frowned, troubled by the flat, evasive tone of his voice. "Why would you let yourself run out?" she asked. "Why would _Wilson_ let you run out? He's supposed to be handling your prescriptions, right?"

A weak half-smile without a trace of actual humor touched House's lips. "I guess he's…not…paying much attention these days…"

That answer was even more troubling than the fact that House had been suffering for four days.

Cuddy felt a sense of irritation rising up in her at the forlorn sound of House's voice, and the knowledge that her suspicions as to all not being quite right in House-and-Wilson-Land were confirmed. How could Wilson could show so little concern that he hadn't even noticed that his best friend was suffering and in excruciating pain for _four whole days_? She absolutely was going to talk with the oncologist the next morning.

Still, the whole thing did not make sense. "Okay – but why would _you_ let yourself run out, House?" she pressed gently. "You need those pills, House; you're in pain…"

"I don't need…as many as I've…been taking," House countered, his voice quiet and strained, not meeting her eyes. "I'd have thought you'd be…happy…"

Far from happy, and not even close to satisfied by his answer, Cuddy sighed. "House," she asked in a gentle, even voice, "are you punishing yourself for something? Is that what this is?"

House let out a soft huff of ironic laughter, shaking his head as he pulled away from her hand. "I _am_ being punished," he admitted, a bitter, cold sound to his voice that made Cuddy feel very uneasy.

"House, look at me," Cuddy ordered, her tone still gentle but holding a note of authority. When he did not, she repeated, more firmly, "Look at me."

He reluctantly complied, and she held his gaze, refusing to let him look away as she declared with quiet intensity, "What happened to Amber was _not your fault_. It was an accident. Any other set of innocent circumstances could have led to the same result. It _just happened_. You didn't kill her."

House looked away, his head and shoulders dipping lower as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Tell that to Wilson."

A faint alarm went off in the back of Cuddy's mind, but her subconscious swiftly squashed it before it could form into a full thought. Not quite deliberately misunderstanding House's words, she placed a compassionate hand on House's shoulder, gently caressing as she murmured reassuringly, "He'll come around, House. I know things might be a little weird right now, but that's normal. He's already forgiven you; just give it time, and things will get back to normal. He just needs time to deal with all this."

House nodded silently without raising his head, and Cuddy got the distinct impression that it was time to shut up.

So – she wisely shut up.

As gently as possible, she began the difficult and painful process of dealing with House's leg. But "as gently as possible" was just not good enough for the amount of pain he was in.

House's eyes were closed, his head resting on the back of the sofa, his left hand pressed against his left thigh so hard that Cuddy knew he had to be causing himself even more pain, with the pressure to the injured hand – but perhaps that was the point, she considered. His right hand clutched the arm of the sofa, and he choked back the cries of pain that rose in his throat, his entire body clenching with his determination not to let her see him in any greater weakness than she had already seen.

When she was finally finished, his entire body was trembling with agony, his head lolling slightly on the back of the couch. Cuddy heard his soft panting, suppressing his moans as he struggled to hold back tears. Her heart ached for him. To think that he actually thought he _deserved_ this, for the accident that had taken Amber's life – it just broke her heart.

Helplessly, she watched him try to deal with his pain without his accustomed chemical crutch. All she wanted to do was to put her arms around him and hold him, to do her best to offer what little comfort she could. But knowing House, he'd reject any sort of sympathy. Still, she had to try. Hesitantly, she reached out a hand to close over his right hand on the arm of the sofa – surprised and touched when he turned it, desperately clasping her hand in his.

_Must be that motherly instinct…guess he was wrong, and I've got it after all…_

Impulsively, before she could talk herself out of it, Cuddy followed that instinct, climbing up onto the couch beside him and leaning in to wrap her arms around House's shaking shoulders, drawing him up and forward so that his head was over her shoulder. She didn't know why she bothered to go through with it; in fact she was almost certain that he would immediately push her away.

But he didn't.

Cautiously, wanting to comfort but not to push too much, she raised one hand to cup the back of his head, running gently through his hair, the other forming soothing circles on his back.

He tensed momentarily in surprise at her touch, and she felt the indecision in the carriage of his body in her arms. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxed into the embrace, and she felt the weight of his head as he allowed it to fall onto her shoulder. He was shuddering, gasping for breath, and Cuddy knew that his reaction was not entirely due to the physical pain he was enduring.

It felt as if he was falling apart, and all she could do was her best to hold him together.

"Shhh," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper in his ear. "It's all right…it's all right…"

House felt ashamed of his own weakness, but he couldn't help it. He clung to her, relishing the sweet tenderness of her embrace. After so long, when the only human touch he had experienced being one that sought to hurt him, to break him, he drank in her affectionate words and warm arms, allowing her to hold him for the better part of an hour before his trembling gradually subside, and the pain of her ministrations finally began to ebb.

Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, House cleared his throat as he drew stiffly away. Cuddy immediately let him go, allowing one hand to stay at his shoulder, the other falling to rest on his left knee.

His head was bowed, and he avoided eye contact, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Guess you got…your money's worth, didn't you?" he rasped out with a sarcastic smile.

"Not yet."

He looked up at her in surprise.

Cuddy caught his gaze, her own earnest and pleading. "There's one more thing I'd like to ask of you, House…"

"No, I will _not_ make out with you." The hoarse, ragged sound of his voice made the attempt at sarcasm fall utterly flat.

"Fine, then." Cuddy put a touch of disappointment in her voice, playing along. Her expression grew serious as she added, "Will you let me stay the night?"

House's eyes widened in surprise at those words.

"I just…don't think you should be alone tonight," Cuddy explained, opting for honesty, given the unusual openness he had just shown her. "I really hope you'll let me stay. Please." To her amazement, she could see in his uncertain eyes that he was actually considering it, and she forced herself to add with a teasing smirk. "I'll even promise _not_ to behave myself if you like."

House wearily returned her smile, grateful for the normalcy of her banter, which allowed him to almost forget the shameful vulnerability he had just displayed. He glanced uneasily toward the door, before meeting her eyes with a soft sigh of defeat.

"Fine," he consented in a put-upon tone of voice. "But the crippled guy gets the bed."

Cuddy grinned. "Of course."

Half an hour later, the medical supplies were put away, the living room was clean, and House was ready for bed. Cuddy walked him to the door of his room, leaning in the doorway as he pulled back his blankets and prepared to go to bed.

"You know, I _am_ capable of getting into _bed_ by myself." He glared at her, but there was no real venom there, as he got into bed and pulled the blankets over him.

"Just making sure you didn't fall down on the way," Cuddy countered with a soft smirk, before turning to go to the couch, where a pile of blankets and pillows was waiting for her to make her own bed.

"Cuddy?"

She turned again, giving him an expectant look. House was looking up at her, his gaze indecipherable, his hand ready on the switch of the lamp beside his bed. "Yes?" she asked softly.

He hesitated slightly.

"Thanks. For staying. I…really _didn't _feel like…being alone tonight." He was quiet a moment before adding in a forcibly lighter tone, dismissing the solemnity of the moment before, "Night, Cuddy."

Before she could respond, House unceremoniously turned off the light and rolled over, deliberately turning his back on her, shutting out any attempts she might have made at further conversation.

A soft, sad smile touched her lips as she watched him for a moment, barely able to make out his form in the darkness. His unexpected response told her that despite her doubts, she _had_ done the right thing.

"Good night, House."


	13. Chapter 13

"House

"House? Hey…wake up for a minute, okay?" Cuddy leaned over House's bed, reaching down to gently shake his shoulder – not too hard, for fear of jostling his injuries and causing him further pain. "Wake up…"

House let out a groan of protest, partially muffled by his pillow, stirring slightly at her touch, but not waking. Cuddy let out an impatient sigh, glancing at her watch. She had to be at work in less than twenty minutes. Suddenly, House's eyes shot open, and he jerked away from her, scrambling backward to sit up against the headboard, wide eyes blinking at her in sleepy alarm.

Even as he reacted, Cuddy prepared herself to keep her dismay from showing on her face. Dealing with House on any emotional level was always a complicated matter; the last thing she wanted was to make him feel self-conscious and shut her out again.

She smiled brightly, as if there was nothing disconcerting about his actions. "Hey, sleepyhead. I'm off to the hospital, just wanted to let you know…"

"If you think _I'm_ going in to work at 8:00 in the morning, you're out of your mind."

House immediately fell into his familiar pattern, rolling his eyes and grumbling, as if he hadn't just been cringing as if she was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. Cuddy gratefully went with it, allowing him to believe that she had not noticed his behavior.

"I don't think _you're_ coming into work today _at all_," she informed him in a slightly stern, almost motherly tone. "You're going to stay right here and rest. Play video games, watch TV, internet porn…I don't care _what_ you do, but you don't have any patients at the moment, and you're certainly not going to be working in the clinic all day…"

House raised a single dubious brow in her direction. "Who are you and what have you done with Cuddy?"

Cuddy's only answer was an indulgent smile as she turned toward the bedroom door, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder.

"I just find it a little confusing." House shrugged. "Most days you can't wait to track me down and force piles of work on me that any mindless drone could handle."

"Most days, you aren't recovering from having the living daylights beaten out of you," Cuddy countered.

Her tone was light, but her smile faltered. Judging from the evidence she'd discovered the night before, these days House was almost _always_ recovering from a beating. She did her best to remain steady, determined not to let her emotions show until she was out of the apartment, when those emotions would do no damage to House's already injured pride.

"No, you should stay here and rest today," she reiterated, forcing a smile.

House watched her as she paused in the doorway, his tone making it clear that he was still skeptical. "And you just woke me up to tell me that I should…keep resting…"

"I woke you up to tell you that there's fresh coffee in the kitchen. I turned off the pot so it won't go all nasty; all you'll have to do is nuke it for a few seconds. There's a plate in the oven with breakfast for you, too. I'll be back this afternoon to do a follow-up exam on those injuries of yours, and I'll come by as soon as I can get away for lunch, and bring you a bottle of Vicodin. Oh and one more thing – if you show your face at the hospital before your doctor – namely me – has released you to return to work, you'll be recovering from a beating from _me_."

Cuddy's tone was cool and even, and yet teasingly affectionate. She smiled again as she saw the gradually rising delight on his face as she told him about the meal she'd prepared for him; and her heart ached as that expression faded into a softer look of awed gratitude. It was heartbreaking to her that such a simple act of kindness should have such a profound effect on him.

"Thanks." His voice was hoarse and husky as he looked away, almost shy, fingers fiddling idly with the blanket that covered him. "You…you didn't have to…"

"No problem."

Cuddy cheerfully uttered the words as she slipped out of the bedroom and made her way to the front door. Locking it carefully before pulling it closed behind her, she made her way swiftly to her car. As she turned the key in the ignition, she sat staring out the windshield for a long moment. She let out a shaky sigh, swiping angrily at her damp eyes, struggling to swallow back a sob.

A moment later, the struggle was lost, as she gave in and allowed the tears to flow.

It was nearly thirty minutes before she was able to regain her composure and make the drive to work.

By the time she reached her office, no one would have guessed that a mere twenty minutes earlier, Cuddy had been sobbing uncontrollably in her car. Her façade was flawless as she greeted several of the hospital's staff on her way. Once she was safe in her office, she let out a sigh of relief as she sank down in her chair.

Then, her eyes narrowed as she remembered item number one on her agenda for the day.

She picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Wilson's office. There was no answer. Frowning, she called the front desk. The nurse who answered the phone checked the log, and informed her that Dr. Wilson had called in sick today, Cuddy hung up the phone a bit harder than necessary, frustrated that the confrontation she had planned would have to be put off.

She sat a few moments longer, restlessly adjusting items on her desk. Sighing, she tapped her foot impatiently. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed the front desk again.

"This is Dr. Cuddy. I'm going to be out of my office for a couple of hours. Please take messages until I get back."

Cuddy's first few knocks on Wilson's door were ignored; but it was obvious he was home. His car was parked outside, and he had called in sick. Chances were that he was asleep, or simply not feeling well enough to answer the door.

At the moment – she really couldn't have cared less.

Finally, she heard his voice, sounding muffled and irritable through the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

The door opened abruptly, and she found herself faced with a very annoyed Wilson, glaring at her in irritation. A moment later, when he realized that it was her, Wilson's expression changed in an instant to one of anxious trepidation.

"Oh…Dr. Cuddy." His voice trembled slightly, as he stepped back out of the doorway, waving a hand in an inviting gesture. "Please, come in."

Wilson was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old, wrinkled t-shirt, his usually perfectly styled hair uncombed, and he looked as if he had not slept at all the night before. But those details paled in comparison to the part of his appearance that Cuddy found most alarming.

Wilson's right eye was black, and his lip was split.

Instinctively, her protective mother instinct came to the fore again.

_What the hell is going on here? Who's been doing this to my boys?_

Of course, the anger she felt toward Wilson overpowered her concern for him in that moment. Wilson seemed to be getting around just fine, despite the visible injuries to his face. When she had found House the night before, he had barely been able to move on his own.

And as far as she was concerned, Wilson's negligence was partially responsible for that.

"I left a message at the front desk that I was out sick today," Wilson explained, his voice trembling slightly. "What's happened? What's wrong?"

Cuddy passed him, walking a few yards into his living room before turning to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. "Maybe I should be asking you."

Wilson swallowed hard. "About…what, exactly?"

"What happened to your face, for one thing." Cuddy gestured toward Wilson's bruises, a stern expression of concern on her face.

"Oh, that…" Wilson laughed nervously, waving a dismissive hand. "I got mugged last night. That's why I called in. I'm a little shaken up. Don't particularly feel like terrifying my patients – but I'm all right, really. No major damage."

Cuddy nodded, pretending to accept his explanation, although she had her doubts. At the moment, she had other things on her mind. "Glad you're all right," she said. She was quiet for a moment. "I'm worried about House," she announced, pausing for effect before adding, "Why aren't you?"

Wilson frowned, confusion and concern in his dark eyes – the picture of innocence. "What's to worry about?" he asked. A half-smile turned the corner of his mouth up slightly as he amended, "Well…besides the usual. I mean…I'm _always_ worried about House, but…is there a specific reason? What's he done this time?"

Finding herself irritated by Wilson's assumption that whatever was wrong, House must be at fault – pointedly ignoring the fact that usually, that was _her_ position – Cuddy answered coolly, "Besides somehow get himself beaten up every day for the past month or so? Nothing, really." She paused, somewhat gratified by Wilson's stunned expression of horror. "And you _always_ worry about him – right – except when he's gone _four days_ without a single Vicodin, with about three times as much pain as he's usually in. _Then_ – you don't seem to notice."

Wilson stared at her for a long, silent moment. Finally he spoke, shaking his head in disbelief. "Four days? Why would he…?"

"Because he ran out four days ago, and apparently he's on some self-flagellation kick, and his _best friend_ couldn't be bothered to notice that he was in _excruciating pain_!" Cuddy's eyes flashed fiery accusation at Wilson as she took a step closer to him, her voice rising, trembling with fury.

Wilson blinked, startled by her outburst. Then, a slow, ironic smile crossed his face, and he let out an almost silent, bitter laugh. "_This _is why you're upset?" he questioned, disbelieving. "Because I didn't remember my role as the enabler to his addiction? Have I fallen into some kind of – of parallel universe? Because last time I checked you'd have been thrilled to think that House was willingly not taking his pills, and outraged with me if I insisted he take them anyway!"

"Last time you checked, House didn't look like a refugee from a death camp!" Cuddy snapped back. "He's lost weight, his hand's shattered, he's covered in bruises – when I found him last night he could barely move! And it didn't all happen last night, either! And _you_ didn't notice!"

"I'm not his _babysitter_!" Wilson shot back bitterly, his voice rising with frustration. "He's a grownup, Cuddy! You think I haven't tried to get him to tell me what's going on? He's not exactly the most open and communicative person I know! And if he won't talk, it's not my place – or yours – to try to force him to!"

"Whatever is happening to him, he's doing it – or _allowing_ it – because he's punishing himself, Wilson!" Cuddy informed him, her voice shaking dangerously, her eyes welling with frustrated tears. "He's doing this because of what happened to Amber!"

Wilson's eyes flashed with a strange mixture of emotions – pain, regret, fear and fury. His gaze was so dark it was almost black. "Well," he muttered, lowering his head, his jaw setting stubbornly, "he _should_ feel guilty. Maybe he's not dealing with it in the right way, but he _did_…"

"It wasn't his fault!"

"How can you say that?" Wilson demanded, his voice breaking as he took a step toward her, eyes blazing in outrage. "She would still be alive if he had spent two seconds thinking of someone besides himself!"

The force of his malice took Cuddy off guard. She took an involuntary step back, stunned at his accusation. Something cold and sick began to slowly creep upward from her stomach to her throat. She swallowed hard, fighting back her rising apprehensions.

_No…no, it's not…possible…_

Her voice was soft, sorrowful, as she reminded him, "I thought you said you'd forgiven him."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, breathing hard through his nose, his jaw set with stubborn anger, his arms crossed over his chest, before he finally let out a shaky sigh, rolling his eyes skyward. He covered them with one hand, allowing that hand to move upward and through his hair in a nervous gesture of frustration.

"I _have_ forgiven him," he replied at last, his voice very quiet and carefully even. "That doesn't mean I'll ever forget." He paused, adding in an even softer voice a moment later, "So you'll have to excuse me if I'm not all broken up because House is suffering for what he did to her. Yeah, it's sad. Yeah, I'd help him if he'd let me. But I can't help but think that – sometimes, just _maybe_ – it's okay if no one protects him from the consequences of his actions."

Cuddy opened her mouth to respond, but found herself at a loss for words in the face of Wilson's callous response to House's condition. Her mind raced, filled with thoughts and ideas she didn't want to be thinking. She studied Wilson's face, his eyes averted, sullen and guarded now that he had said his piece.

Slowly, she stepped forward, regaining the ground she had relinquished a moment earlier. She kept advancing until she was a foot or two away from Wilson, her arms crossed over her chest as she looked up at him through cool, narrowed eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and controlled, with the barest hint of a tremor to betray her anger.

"If you _won't_ protect him…" she stated quietly, certainly, "…trust me…I _will_."

Startled by the tone of her voice, Wilson looked up at her, wondering at the undercurrent he heard in her words. His expression cautious, he opened his mouth to respond – but Cuddy was already turning away, moving toward the door. She didn't say another word as she stalked out, slamming the door behind her.

House spent most of the day on his sofa, watching television programs but not really hearing them. His mind was consumed by thoughts of the night before. As he played them over in his head – overanalyzing, cringing at every remembered weakness – he wondered at Cuddy's attempts to get information out of him…and privately relished the memory of her much-needed tenderness.

He considered, not for the first time, whether or not he should just come clean, tell her what had happened, and put her mind at rest.

_Except…it wouldn't put her mind at rest …It would just be harder for her…taking sides, choosing between Wilson and me…Keep your mouth shut, House. Wilson is gone, and he knows better than to come back here anytime soon…_

A sudden sharp rap on the door made him jump – and then wince at his own reaction.

_It's the middle of the day…Wilson's at work…couldn't be him…_

He got up and went to the door, moving more slowly than usual because of the extreme pain he was in, wishing for noon and the promised Vicodin that Cuddy would bring. When he glanced through the peephole and saw that it was her and not Wilson, his heart leapt with relief. In his eagerness to get the pills, he never considered it strange that Cuddy was here in the middle of her workday.

He opened the door, a bright smile on his face as he held out his hand expectantly. "My meds?"

Cuddy pushed forward into his apartment, causing him to take a couple of hurried backward steps simply to avoid being bowled over. She slammed the door shut behind her, and spun around to face him, her eyes blazing with furious indignation.

"You lied to me."

House hated the sharp pang of fear he felt at the anger on her face, hated that his brain felt the need to constantly remind him that he was at a physical disadvantage to just about anyone at the moment, even Cuddy – and mostly, hated that it was his _best friend_ who had caused his irrational, debilitating fear.

Cuddy's eyes went wide, startled by House's fearful reaction. Then, her expression softened with sympathy in spite of her anger as she studied his face, and House closed his eyes, trying in vain to shut her out, taking an instinctive backward step away from her.

"I…I don't know what you mean…"

"House."

He sensed her approach rather than saw it. Refusing to look at her, he stumbled a step or two back, until his back was to the wall. Cuddy just continued her quiet advance, waiting until there was no retreat left to him. When she placed a gentle hand on his arm, House flinched. Her eyes welled with tears of sorrow and compassion.

"_House_."

The insistence in her soft voice drew his gaze reluctantly up to hers, and he swallowed hard, his eyes wide and slightly panicked. He glanced down at his hands and noticed that they were shaking; he swiftly clenched them into fists at his sides, struggling against his own emotions – but he found that he couldn't look away from Cuddy's searching, tender eyes.

There was quiet horror in her voice when she finally stated her conclusions. House's heart stopped beating for a moment as he realized that the truth was out, that somehow she had figured it out without his confession.

"It was Wilson – wasn't it? Wilson did this to you."


	14. Chapter 14

At her stunning question, House's eyes shot up to meet Cuddy's searching gaze

Cuddy knew. She knew about Wilson.

House's eyes shot up to meet her searching gaze. She was staring at him, her expression gentle but unyielding, and House knew that she was not asking because she did not already know. Somehow, she had figured it out. She knew Wilson was the one who was hurting him.

Somehow, he had to make her stop knowing it.

His mouth twisted into a derisive sneer as he finally found his voice. He pulled free of her comforting hands as he responded to her soft accusation.

"What? You've got to be kidding! Do you actually think that I'd let _Wilson_ do this to me? The most pathetically passive person I know? _Seriously_?" He let out a soft huff of disgust, rolling his eyes as he looked away. "Go back to your original theory that I'm punishing myself," he advised. "It's less insulting."

"Oh, I still think you're punishing yourself," Cuddy informed him without hesitation, a dangerous note of anger creeping into her voice. "I just think you're using a Wilson-shaped weapon. He can't forgive you for what happened to Amber, and you can't forgive yourself. Awfully convenient, isn't it?"

"Yeah. For you and this crazy idea you've somehow gotten into your head. He _has_ forgiven me, and…"

"House…he hasn't. You're the most brilliant, observant man I know. If _I_ can see it, you _must_ be able to…" Cuddy's voice held a weary patience, her eyes sad and sympathetic as she explained, "…and…and besides, I've…already talked to Wilson…"

House's heartbeat quickened, his mind racing as he tried to determine how much Wilson might have told her. He couldn't have told her _everything_. She'd have had him arrested. Cuddy had come to know House pretty well over the last few years. Maybe she was bluffing to make him tell the truth.

House knew that he needed to tread carefully. He couldn't afford to be careless. The only thing keeping Wilson away right now was House's threat to go to Cuddy or the authorities. If Cuddy knew and he feigned ignorance, the worst that could happen was the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. If she didn't know, and he let it slip, he would lose what little leverage he had against Wilson – and Wilson would lose _everything_.

Despite all that Wilson had done to him, despite House's knowledge that it could not be allowed to continue, he did not want to see Wilson in jail, or fired – did not want to see him lose everything, in addition to the loss of Amber with which he was already dealing so poorly.

_He has to be stopped, though – _has_ to be – or someone's going to end up dead. Most likely me._

House knew that Wilson deserved to be punished for what he'd done – knew that he should tell Cuddy the truth, and even go to the authorities about this. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

_He'll stop now, now that he knows he might get caught…he'll let it go…_

Reassuring himself only slightly with that thought, he managed to keep up his façade for Cuddy's benefit. "So you talked to Wilson," he shrugged. "And he told you the same thing I'm telling you, didn't he? This little theory of yours is ridiculous."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, searching his eyes for some trace of the truth she knew he was hiding.

"Why are you lying about this, House?" she demanded quietly at last. She was unable to keep the frustration out of her voice, though she thought she might know the answer already. "Why would you protect someone who _hates_ you? Someone who would – would do _this_ to you?" A vague gesture of her hand in his direction indicated his injuries. "Wilson doesn't deserve your loyalty, House – not anymore. Not after what he's done to you…"

"He hates me," he echoed in a whisper, only vaguely aware that the simple words were giving away far too much. "He said…he _told you_ he…?"

"He didn't have to _say_ it," Cuddy amended, troubled by the hurt she saw in House's eyes. Wilson's hatred must be hurting him at least as much as the physical injuries.

"I just…saw…He _looked_ like…like he was capable of hurting you, House. I'm not an idiot. I know how…how angry he still is over what happened, and I _know _that he's the one that's been hurting you." She paused, struggling over her next words. "I…I want to help you, House. I want to stop this – this thing that's been going on between you two. But I can't if you won't let me. And you _need_ to let me, House. You need someone who's on your side – and Wilson's not. Not anymore."

House barely heard the words, his thoughts still circling around that one agonizing word. _Hate._ Wilson had made it clear a hundred times over the past few weeks, both with his words and with his fists – but it still tore him apart to hear it.

Wilson _hated_ him.

He had offered up apologies – and when that had failed, he had offered up _himself_, submitting willingly to Wilson's abuse in the vain hope that sooner or later, he would work it out of his system. Sooner or later, Wilson would exhaust his need for vengeance, and find it in himself to forgive House at last.

But _that_ had failed, too. Wilson still hated him.

Even now, after nearly killing House more than once, Wilson's hatred was so overwhelming and powerful that it was clearly visible to Cuddy, despite the efforts House knew he must have taken to conceal it. He had tried everything to earn back Wilson's friendship—even placing his own life on the line—and now, there was nothing left for House to do but to face the painful facts.

Wilson was _never_ going to forgive him.

With the agonizing impact of that knowledge came a weight of despair, and House found himself blinking back tears. Keeping the secret, concealing his vulnerability, doing whatever he could to keep from angering Wilson further – none of it seemed to matter anymore. All he'd had was Wilson's friendship, and now – now, he had nothing left.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," he whispered, not aware he was going to speak until he heard the words come out. "I didn't mean to…to kill her."

His eyes were downcast again, and he swallowed past the hard knot in his throat. He drew back against the wall behind him as Cuddy shifted closer. She raised a gentle hand to touch his arm, relieved when this time, he did not pull away. Slowly she ran her fingertips up and down his arm in a light, soothing caress as she edged in as close as she dared. She looked up at him, willing him to meet her eyes.

"House," she whispered when at last he did. "You _didn't_ kill her. You risked your life to _save_ her. It wasn't your fault that it was too late – and it wasn't your fault that the bus crashed. It just happened…"

He had heard those words before – from her lips, even. They meant even less now than they had the first time. No matter what words she used to try to absolve him, he knew that he was guilty of everything Wilson said he was. House shook his head, closing his eyes against the tears out of habit more than anything else. At that moment, even the idea that Cuddy was seeing him this weak didn't seem to matter much.

"It's my fault," he whispered. "I…I deserved it..."

Cuddy's eyes widened as she felt the tremor pass through him, felt his knees buckle against her own legs as they failed to support his weight. Awkwardly she did her best to catch him, to ease the fall, sliding down with him as he fell to the floor, his shoulders shaking violently.

Cuddy knew that she should check his physical injuries; it was likely that the pain he was in, the weakness from the beatings, had contributed to his collapse. She also knew that the position he was in – kneeling with his torso doubled over his thighs, his arms crossed tightly over his stomach – could not possibly be comfortable for his damaged right leg. All of that knowledge was eclipsed by the one fact of the situation that she could not believe she was seeing – the one thing that her mind had never expected to see, and therefore could not begin to process.

House was _crying_.

Silently, yes, and with a restraint that she knew he had to hold onto – his arms tightly folded across his torso as if to hold in the silent sobs that shook his slender frame – but _crying_. His lips were parted, though no sound came out, and his eyes were tightly closed against the tears – but a few managed to push their way out, nevertheless.

Cuddy pushed aside her disbelief, the surreality of the fact that this was _House_, breaking before her on the floor of his apartment, and reacted with the same instincts to which she had surrendered the night before. Careful of his injuries, she wrapped a gentle arm around his shaking shoulders, reaching out her other hand to hold his.

"House," she whispered. "It's all right."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, barely more than mouthing the words. "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

There was desperation and defeat in his slumped shoulders, his head shaking slowly in weary acceptance of the fact that his apologies were useless. They didn't change anything, didn't earn absolution for his accidental crimes.

"It wasn't your fault," Cuddy whispered, her hand leaving his to stroke gently through his hair. "House…you didn't do anything to deserve this…"

House slid to the side, off his aching leg, and allowed his head to fall wearily forward into her lap, his silent sobs still shaking his body, his arms still protectively crossed. She wondered how long it had been since he had allowed anyone to hold him like this – whether anyone since his own mother had been allowed to see him in such a vulnerable state.

She knelt with him on the floor for nearly an hour, cradling him with one arm while running her fingertips lightly through his hair, trying to soothe him with her touch. It was all she could offer him at the moment – but she was grateful to be allowed to offer it at all.

Gradually, the shaking subsided, and House went still in her arms. The tension that remained in his shoulders, the convulsive swallow she felt against her leg, told her that he was still very much alert, and possibly more aware now of his breakdown than he had been while it was happening. Her heart ached for him, knowing that he was likely very embarrassed by his display of emotions, afraid to lift his head simply because he did not want to face her.

Still – House's having the benefit of concealment might have its advantages, she reasoned. Hoping he might be more open with her if she didn't force him to face her, Cuddy kept up the gentle, soothing motion of her fingers in his hair, keeping her tone relaxed, casual, as she spoke.

"So…I was right. About Wilson." It was a statement, not a question. She hoped to hear it from his lips, but she knew that he might still deny it.

He did not.

"I know you feel responsible, House," she continued, her tone gentle, quiet. "I know you want to do whatever you can to make things right with him. But – it seems to me – you've done enough. _More_ than enough."

House shook his head without raising it. His voice was hoarse, despairing. "Not enough…never enough…"

Encouraged by the fact that he was actually acknowledging what had happened – sort of – Cuddy thought that perhaps it might be safe to get him to face her. She wanted him to face her for this, wanted him to read the truth in her eyes as well as her words. Her hands shifted, the one around his shoulders moving to the front to gently push him up, while her hand in his hair touched the base of his chin, tilting his head up to face her.

"House," she said, holding his gaze intently, "you'd already done more than enough when you put yourself in a _coma_ trying to save Amber, just so that Wilson could be happy. You risked your _life _for him – and this is how he repays you?"

House looked away. "I couldn't save her," he replied. "She would never have been on that bus if not for me. He…he has every right to be…angry…"

"He has _no_ right to _hurt_ you, House!" Cuddy insisted. "I don't care what you think you've done, or deserve, or what right he has to hate you – he has _never_ got the right to _do_ this to you!" She paused, hesitating before going on in a hushed voice of concern. "This scares me, House. Wilson's become abusive, and you…Well, you're a doctor. I know I don't have to tell you how you're reacting."

House cringed, disgusted by the comparison. "Don't try and apply the psychology of domestic violence to this situation, Cuddy. I'm not some poor little battered wife…"

"Then stop acting like one!"

House sighed in defeat, much more quickly than Cuddy had expected. He wanted to deny it, but he knew as well as she did that the psychology _did_ apply. "You don't have to worry," he assured her in a flat voice. "I kicked him out. Last night. I – told him that if he ever tried it again, I'd turn him in. So…you don't have to worry about it anymore."

Cuddy frowned. "I'm…guessing he didn't take that well."

"This all happened…before." House waved a dismissive hand at her concern. "He left when I told him to." He didn't see any need to elaborate on the circumstances, and how near Wilson had come to killing him. "It's all…taken care of, so…so I'm hoping you can just stop being all mother hen about it and just let it go now…"

Cuddy let out a rather unladylike snort, drawing his eyes back up to her face in surprise.

"Right. Good luck with that." She raised a single brow in his direction as she added, "Do you really think he's going to stop just because you said stop? He's formed a pattern, here, House, and unless we take action…"

"_It's over_," House assured her. "No further action necessary…"

"You think I'm gonna let him just keep working at the hospital, going about his daily routine as if everything's perfect, after what he's done?" Cuddy was incredulous. "You've got to be kidding, House!"

"Don't make a big thing out of this for _my_ sake…it's done…"

"A big thing? A big _thing_!? He nearly killed you, House. He ought to be in jail for what he did to you!" Her voice softened, and her expression was solemn, troubled, as she continued, "But…I don't think either of us really wants that to happen to him. And – it doesn't have to, but – but _something_ has to be done. If you won't say anything for your sake – then, for his. He needs help. Serious help. It's normal for him to be angry after something like this – and it's probably even normal for him to be angry with _you_. I mean – it's _not_ your fault, but – it's natural to want to blame someone. But somewhere along the way, something's gone terribly wrong in his grieving process. He's come unhinged, House. Until he gets some help, he'll continue to be a danger to himself, and everyone around him."

"Not everyone," House sighed, sitting up a little straighter, placing distance between himself and Cuddy. Picking up on his cue, she dropped her hands from his shoulder and his face, giving him the space he needed. "Just me, I think."

The silence was heavy, with a sense of anticipation that made Cuddy hold her tongue, waiting for him to go on.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice quiet. "I…I thought if I just…let him get it out of his system…if he could just get all that anger out, and feel like he'd…like he'd _punished_ me, I guess, for…for taking her away from him…" He stopped, shaking his head wearily. "But it was never enough. Every time I hoped…maybe it'd be the last. Maybe it was over, but – but after a while, I started to see it for what it was."

He laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. "I should have known better. I should have recognized it for what it was. I've seen enough of it."

What? What exactly House was revealing to her? Alarmed, Cuddy ventured, "Seen enough of…of what?"

_Abuse? Is he telling me that he's been through this kind of abuse_ before?

House looked up at her, his gaze solemn and intent, but in control of his emotions once more, as he answered unexpectedly.

"Addiction."

Cuddy couldn't make the connection. She shook her head slightly, silently indicating her confusion.

"He became…dependent. On the release. The…the feeling of…I don't know, vindication?...satisfaction?...he got when he…when he…" He nodded downward toward his own battered body, unable to bring himself to put into words what Wilson had done to him.

Cuddy fought back a nauseated feeling of appalled fury. Her mind rebelled against the idea that what Wilson was doing was comparable to House's Vicodin addiction. House's addiction hurt no one but himself. When she spoke again, her voice was firm and controlled, quietly demanding his assent.

"Then you agree that he has a problem."

What she wanted was House's verbal agreement. She would have to settle for his slow, suspicious nod.

"We're going to have to report this, House," Cuddy insisted. "We've got to get him some kind of…of therapy, or…or something…" _Or committed…or in jail…or five minutes alone in a room with me and a billy club…_

The flash of fear she saw in House's eyes as he looked up at her only served to increase her anger. "He can't…he can't know that you know," he warned her. "If he finds out…before you can do anything…"

_He's afraid Wilson will kill him_. The thought sickened her.

"He won't find out," Cuddy assured him. "It's Friday. We'll go to the police station on Monday and file a report…"

"No," House objected, alarm in his eyes. "We're not involving the police in this. That's completely unnecessary…"

"House, are you kidding? After what he's done to you? We have to get the authorities involved, for his own good! Do you really think he'll consent to treatment on his own? The only way we're going to get him into any kind of therapy is if it's legally required. We have to…"

"_No_!" House snapped. "Cuddy, I told you it's over! He's not coming back here. I'm going to be fine. I am not ratting out my best friend to the cops!"

"He ratted _you_ out," Cuddy reminded him, one brow raised. "Back when he _was_ your best friend."

"I should have known better than to trust you with this," House muttered, scrambling backward, far enough away from her to grasp his cane and pull himself to his feet. He winced in pain, and Cuddy rose to her knees, reached toward him to help him with a gasp of alarm. "Don't touch me!" he snapped at her, jerking away from her hand.

"House, just listen to me…"

"No!" he insisted. "_You_ listen! If you go to the cops about this, I'll deny everything. They won't have a case against him if I say he didn't do it. And if you say anything to _him_, I'm as good as dead. So I guess you've got some decisions to make about what you're going to do."

Dismayed at the turn the conversation was taking, Cuddy rose to her feet, a bit unsteady with her legs half-asleep beneath her. "House, please…I don't understand why you're…"

Her voice trailed off as House reached the door, swinging it open with a dramatic flourish. She frowned. "House…"

"Go."

She shook her head. "This is ridiculous. We need to talk about this…"

"You talked, I talked…the talking part of the evening is over. _You_ need to go home – to _your_ home – and think about what you're going to do," House corrected her. "I've said my piece, and I think you understand where I stand on this."

"House…"

"See you Monday, Cuddy."

"_House_…"

"I mean it."

"If you'd just listen to…"

"_Get out_!"

House's furious snarl brought an abrupt end to the argument, and Cuddy froze, swallowing hard, fighting back tears of hurt and frustration. She didn't want to go, not without convincing House that Wilson needed help, even if that meant involving the authorities. Still, she knew that House was not going to hear anything else she had to say right then.

Finally, she nodded without another word of objection, walking through the door. In the hall, she turned to face him, her mouth open for one last remark.

"But House…if you need _anything_…"

The door slammed abruptly in her face.

Cuddy stood there a moment longer, trying to figure out what had happened, before finally turning again to walk away.


	15. Chapter 15

It was a restless night for Cuddy

It was a restless night for Cuddy.

She couldn't stop thinking about her conversation with House, and wondering just what exactly she had done or said wrong. She thought she was making progress with him, getting through his walls. He had actually admitted to her that Wilson was responsible for his injuries. His emotional breakdown in front of her, while painful, had felt like a _good_ thing, like a sign that she was getting through to him.

And then…it had all fallen apart – and she still had no idea why.

The next day was Saturday. Cuddy wasn't sure she could go the whole weekend without settling things between herself and House, but she didn't think that invading House's space again when he was already so defensive would do any good. Still, she couldn't resist a call that afternoon.

As she had expected, the call went to voicemail.

"House? Are you there?" She waited a moment, not expecting him to pick up, but suppressing a sigh of disappointment anyway when he didn't. "I'm just…making sure you're okay. Or…I would be. If you'd pick up." She waited again. "_Please_ pick up."

Nothing.

With a sigh, she hung up the phone.

On Sunday, she repeated the attempt, with similar results. So – she tried again…and again.

Halfway through the third ring on her sixth attempt, she heard the click as the receiver was picked up.

"_What_?" House snarled into the phone.

"Oh, thank God." Cuddy let out the deep breath she'd been holding. "House – it would have killed you to _answer_?"

"I _did_ answer."

"Earlier?"

"I was trying to avoid you," House explained, and she could hear the sarcastic smile in his voice. "And doing a pretty good job of it, too. But I figured I'd better answer, before the constant calls bordering on harassment got _annoying_…"

"I didn't know if you were alive or dead, House. I just wanted to make sure you were safe…"

"I'm safe, and alive, and _you…you_ are not my mother. I don't care if it helps you to deal with your failure-to-become-a-mommy issues to pretend that you are – you aren't. And it doesn't help _my_ irritated-to-the-point-of-suicide issues, either. So I'm hanging up now…"

She was grateful he'd said the harsh words over the phone, that he couldn't see her flinch. His deliberate dig at her most vulnerable spot stung, but she knew he was only saying it to make her leave him alone

_Well, it's not going to work…I'm not _going_ to leave you alone…I'm not going to _leave you_, period, no matter how hard you try to drive me away… _

"House…"

"See. You. Tomorrow."

_Click_.

True to his word, House was in his office Monday morning, although he didn't have a patient. That was his excuse for giving his team the day off, but Cuddy knew that he just didn't want to face their questions and curious glances.

The bruise on his face where Wilson had struck him was beginning to fade, but was still visible. His limp was more pronounced, and he had to know that he could not conceal his pain from them all day. It was easier just to send them away than to deal with their unwanted concern.

She didn't want to invade his space, to make him feel threatened and further push him away – but technically, the hospital was _her _space. Although she didn't think Wilson would be stupid enough to try anything against House so soon after her confrontation with him, a part of her was afraid that he might have come back to take out his frustrations on House again. Cuddy hadn't seen House since he had kicked her out of his apartment, and she wanted to see for herself that he was all right.

She walked into his office without knocking, her expression warm and open as she met his eyes over a smile.

"Hey."

He glanced away from his video game for just a moment, his expression not changing as he ordered, "Get out."

"Doesn't work that way here, House." She smirked, stopping in front of his desk, her arms crossed over her chest. "You can't kick me out."

"Fine." House stood up abruptly from behind his desk, moving around it and past her toward the door. "I'll kick _me_ out, then."

Cuddy reached out as he passed her, catching his arm. "House, wait…"

He flinched, jerking his arm away from her as he spun to face her, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat. His reaction seemed to startle him as much as it did her, and they just stood there staring at each other in shock for a long moment.

Cuddy was the first to recover, her expression softening with compassion as she took a cautious step closer, reaching out a hand slowly toward him, making sure that he saw the motion and was ready for it before she gently touched his arm again. He tensed slightly at her touch, but did not pull away, his head lowered in discomfort and embarrassment at his own instinctive reaction.

"I didn't come in here to argue again, anyway," she quietly informed him. "I'll accept however you want to handle this. I just…wanted to be sure you're okay."

"I am." House replied without hesitation, though his tone was less than convincing. Visibly struggling for control over the emotions stirred by her gentle touch, he followed it up with a soft, frustrated, "I hate you."

Cuddy smiled, not at all bothered. "No, you don't."

House was silent for a moment before agreeing in the same tone, "No. I don't." He considered a moment before amending, so softly that she barely caught the words. "I hate that you can do this to me."

Cuddy blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected honesty of his words. She wasn't quite sure what he was talking about, but she was afraid to push any farther, afraid to shatter the unusual moment of openness between them.

Perhaps she understood as well as he had intended for her to understand.

She opened her mouth to say…_something_, still unsure what…but closed her mouth again when House suddenly went pale, his eyes stricken and focused on something beyond her, outside the glass walls of his office. She glanced over her shoulder, her stomach lurching when she saw Wilson pacing slowly outside the office, apparently waiting for her to leave.

"Tell me to leave again," she ordered abruptly, turning back to face House, gesturing angrily with her hands in a way that was utterly incongruent with her tone.

"What?" House frowned at her, confused and distracted.

"Do whatever you usually do," Cuddy clarified impatiently, rolling her eyes. "Just look like we're arguing as usual. He still doesn't know that I know anything, and he doesn't have to."

"Yeah…okay."

House glanced over her shoulder with an expression of fear that made Cuddy want to storm out of House's office right then and knock the unsuspecting oncologist on his ass in the hallway. House caught the look, and was perhaps more convincing because of it as he pointed an accusing finger toward her chest, eyes narrowed with completely false anger that barely masked the desperate plea behind it.

"_Don't_ say a word to him. Don't let him know you know."

Cuddy smirked as if she was making a point she was very proud of as she replied, "If I was going to do that, do you think I'd have suggested this little ruse in the first place?" With those words, she turned and sauntered smugly toward the door.

Her blue eyes blazing with very real resentment, she stepped out into the hallway. As she did, Wilson nodded at her in greeting as he reached for the closing door to House's office. To his surprise, Cuddy caught the door, pushing it closed as she moved smoothly into Wilson's path.

"I wouldn't if I were you," she advised, her voice cool, her eyes locked onto his in an appraising look. "He's in quite the mood today."

Wilson smirked. "I'll take my chances," he muttered, reaching for the door again.

Cuddy did not move. Her eyes narrowed as she edged into Wilson's way again, moving when he moved. He stopped, his head tilted slightly as he regarded her warily.

"Seriously," she insisted, her voice strangely soft, with a dangerous edge of warning. "If I were you, I'd just head back to _My_. _Own. Office_." The corners of her mouth quirked upward slightly in an unsettling little smile, as she added with a slight shrug, "If you don't…well…there's no telling what might happen while you're in there."

Wilson stared at her for a long moment, and she was gratified to see fear and uncertainty in his dark eyes. She could tell by his expression that he was not sure how much she knew, or whether or not to interpret her words at face value. He was just enough afraid that she _might_ know, and of what she might do about it if he disregarded her subtle orders.

He hesitated.

After a long, tense moment during which Cuddy began to wonder if perhaps she had taken it too far…Wilson finally relented, nodding. "O-okay," he agreed in a quiet, nervous voice. "I'll, uh…come back later…"

Cuddy shrugged again, holding his gaze. "Or not."

Wilson nodded again, smiling uncertainly, clearly unsure whether or not she was joking. Without another word, he turned and hurried down the hall in the direction of his own office.

House watched the brief, quiet exchange between Cuddy and Wilson, his heart pounding against his ribcage, desperately wishing he could hear what was said. Cuddy had said that she would not give away what she knew – but with every calm, smiling word she spoke, Wilson seemed more anxious.

House felt sick to his stomach, suddenly certain that as soon as Cuddy walked away, Wilson was going to storm into his office, drag him off to the closest available private room, and make him pay for Cuddy's quiet display of outrage on his behalf – because that _had _to be what he was seeing.

She was telling Wilson off, in her typical Cuddy way. She couldn't help it—she had spilled it, despite her promises. Any minute now, Wilson was going to rush into House's office, guns blazing – possibly literally – and House was going to be punished for revealing their secret.

_Any minute now…wait…is he…is he_ walking away?

House could hardly believe his eyes as Wilson turned and hurried off down the hall. Bewildered, he cast a questioning look in Cuddy's direction when she turned and grinned at him through the glass.

Stepping back up to the door, she poked her head around it just long enough to ask casually, "House? Can you help me out in the clinic for a few hours?"

"What did you say to him?" House demanded, his voice hushed but intent.

Cuddy shrugged. "You know, I'm not sure I remember exactly." She smirked, meeting his eyes with an amused sparkle in her own as she added, "I'm not sure Wilson's quite sure, either. I was just vague enough to leave him wondering – but pretty much scared out of his mind. I don't think he'll be bothering you for a while." She paused, her expression growing serious again as she continued, "But…just in case…clinic? Please?"

Reassured by her words, and recognizing her motives in asking him to work in the clinic, House felt a rush of gratitude. If he was working in the clinic, he would be within sight of Cuddy's office all afternoon – and therefore out of Wilson's reach, should he regain his courage enough to come after him.

In a response that would have utterly stunned any listeners into their conversation, with a gracious smile, House replied as he headed toward the door, "Of course, Dr. Cuddy. I'd _love_ to."

Wilson's heart was pounding, his mouth dry, his skin hot and flushed with terror and shame as he made his way swiftly toward the shelter of his own office.

_She knows…oh God,_ she knows! _He must have told her…I'll_ kill _him if he told her…_

He fell into the chair behind his desk, his breath shallow and rapid as he struggled to control his own rising fears. After a few moments he looked up, frowning as he replayed the odd, unsettling exchange in his head. Cuddy's words, her demeanor, had definitely been off – but just normal _enough_ to leave him wondering if his own guilt, his own fear of getting caught, had fabricated the entire thing.

The accusing look in her eyes, the cool, threatening tone of her voice – had they existed only in his own mind?

He had been just uncertain enough to keep him from walking into House's office, lest Cuddy should head directly to her own to call the authorities.

_But…maybe she _doesn't_ know…maybe it's all in my head…I'm losing it…God, I'm losing my mind…_

Frustration began to set in as the shock began to wear off, and Wilson felt his heartbeat begin to return to normal, the initial panic fading away to a tight, quiet knot of apprehension. He knew that he couldn't go back to see House in his office – not now, not if there was even the barest possibility that Cuddy knew what had been going on between them.

But – he had to _know_.

Fury flaring up again within him, Wilson's eyes narrowed as he glared in the direction of House's office. Through the window in the door leading out to the balcony, he could just barely make out House's chair – now empty.

_Trust him to run away like a little coward…_ Contempt and disappointment filled him with a sick, nauseated feeling as his jaw set in frustration. _But you can't hide from me forever, House. I'm _gonna_ find you…and I'm gonna find out what you told her._

Wilson's eyes hardened with dark intent, his fists clenching with impotent fury on the surface of his desk.

_And _if_ he told her…he's dead. I'll kill him._


	16. Chapter 16

Cuddy kept a watchful eye on House all afternoon, even to the point of hand-selecting which patients he saw, doing her best to make sure his work wasn't anything too taxing or potentially traumatic

Cuddy kept a watchful eye on House all afternoon, even hand-selecting which patients he saw, doing her best to make sure his work wasn't anything too taxing or potentially traumatic. When House emerged from an exam room containing his fourteenth five-year-old with a runny nose to find Cuddy rearranging the stack of charts to replace the chart of a stocky businessman who would have been next with the chart of yet another young child – he decided that he had had enough.

He swiftly closed the distance between them, pointedly lifting the chart she had placed on top of the stack and taking the one beneath it.

He responded to her questioning look with a wink as he explained, "I don't know, those kids are getting a little too upsetting for my delicate sensibilities. All that screaming and crying is just too traumatic for my poor damaged psyche." He made a face of exaggerated fear, eyes wide and lower lip trembling dramatically. "It's just too scawy. I think I should stick with a nice, safe STD for a change…"

"House…" Cuddy's voice was wearily patient as she followed him toward the exam room where the patient waited.

"You can walk me there if you want to, Mommy, but I'm pretty sure I remember the way."

"I'm just trying to make this a little easier for you…"

"Funny, because what you're accomplishing is exactly the opposite," House informed her, irritation evident in his voice. "You've checked in on me every ten minutes for the past two hours. You haven't given me a single adult male patient all day…"

"I just didn't want anything to upset…"

"Yeah, 'cause every male in the whole world is just like my crazy best friend who attacked me, and the mere sight of a man will bring back a flood of painful memories that will utterly incapacitate me to the point of not being able to do my job." House's voice was low and intent, full of bitter, scathing sarcasm, his eyes glittering with frustrated fury as he turned to glare at her, his hand waiting on the doorknob of the exam room. "So, instead you decided to waste my time checking up on me every five minutes and keep me from doing my job _first_. Yeah. That makes things _so_ much better."

"I'm just trying to keep the stress level down," Cuddy insisted, keeping her voice calm despite her rising frustration. She was trying to _help_ House; despite her sympathy for his situation, she could not help resenting his reaction.

"Yeah, because having absolutely _nothing_ to think about all day…yeah, _that_ keeps me from stressing over the bigger stuff…like whether or not Wilson's going to decide to corner me in an exam room and kick my ass again. Yeah, thanks _so_ much for the utter _lack_ of distraction you've so graciously provided!"

House's voice seemed to rise with every word, and Cuddy glanced self-consciously around to see if anyone had heard as she took his arm and steered him toward the empty exam room next to the one he had been about to enter, leading him inside and closing the door firmly behind them.

"This isn't about distraction," she reminded him quietly in a slow, overly patient tone. "This is about making sure that you are safe…protecting you…"

"I don't _need_ your _protection_!" House practically spat the words at her, disgusted by the suggestion.

"Yeah. _That's_ obvious," Cuddy. "Clearly, you're _completely_ capable of defending yourself. Why am I worrying at all? Certainly doesn't have anything to do with the way I found you the other night!"

"I never asked for your help, Cuddy. If you had decided to mind your own business that night and stayed at home, I would have been just fine!"

"_You_ called _me_, remember?"

It was a blatant reminder of his own vulnerability, bringing to mind all the weakness and fear and uncertainty he had felt that night – and it was too much for him to take at the moment. The instant the words were out of her mouth, Cuddy knew that she had crossed the line – but it was too late to take them back.

The damage was done.

House glared at her for a tense, silent moment, the expression in his eyes so furious that for just an instant, she thought that he might strike her – but he didn't.

Instead, his voice softened, perfectly controlled, as he gave her a cool, tight smile and responded simply, "My mistake."

Without another word, he tossed the patient chart he held onto the examination table, then turned and stalked out the door. Cuddy followed him, alarmed when she saw him heading toward the front exit.

"House, wait!" she objected, hurrying to get ahead of him and cut him off.

Impatiently he moved around her, but she blocked his path again.

"You can't just _leave_!" Her voice was incredulous. "It's not safe."

"Actually – I _can_. And it's the middle of the work day. You-know-who will be in his cozy little office for hours yet. It's perfectly safe," House pointed out. "Now get out of my way."

"No." Cuddy crossed her arms, moving when House moved, staying between him and the exit. "I'm not gonna let you do this to yourself, House!"

He feinted left, then darted past her to her right. Cuddy reached out instinctively to catch his arm and pull him back. House jerked away from her in obvious alarm, letting out a sharp gasp as he spun to face her.

Remembering her earlier, similar mistake, and House's reaction, Cuddy immediately released his arm, a rush of guilt flooding over her as he backed a few steps away from her, putting plenty of distance between them, his eyes wide and wary.

"I'm sorry," she murmured with a little grimace of self-reproach. "House, I'm so sorry…"

His expression of fear faded instantly into a self-satisfied smirk, as he winked at her and observed, "Gotcha. Sucker."

Cuddy was left stunned and confused, wondering whether or not she had just been played, or if House had simply been doing his best to cover for a genuine reaction of fear – leaving House free to make his way swiftly out the doors and toward his parking spot.

Giving up on the idea of stopping him, Cuddy thought quickly, fighting off a sense of dread at the idea of House being alone, where Wilson could get to him. She turned and headed toward Wilson's office. House was probably right, she reassured herself as she hurried down the hall. There were still hours left in the workday, and Wilson was not likely to leave the hospital anytime soon. House should have plenty of time to get to the safety of his own apartment.

_In theory, anyway…_

Erin O'Leary looked up from her desk outside her boss's office when she heard someone approaching, soon recognizing Dr. Cuddy. That usually meant important business, and she naturally straightened, feeling a little nervous, wanting to present herself as well as possible before the hospital administrator.

"Dr. Cuddy. What can I do for you today?"

As soon as she saw the expression on Cuddy's face, however, Erin knew that whatever good impression she was presenting was wasted. Cuddy's lips were tight, her gaze piercing as she glanced toward the door to Dr. Wilson's office and addressed Erin in a curt, impatient tone of voice.

"Is Dr. Wilson in?"

As upset as she was, Cuddy probably didn't even remember Erin's name.

Erin frowned, her irritation fading into alarm at the traces of fear she saw in Cuddy's eyes. She wondered what might have happened involving Dr. Wilson that would have his boss so on edge.

Dr. Wilson had seemed distracted lately, his moods shifting day to day from cheerful and pleasant – as he had once _always_ been – to dark and brooding, with no explanation. He was sometimes snappy with her, with no provocation, leaving Erin feeling nervous and uncertain about her job, and wondering what she had done wrong.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy," Erin replied, hesitating slightly, nervous and uncertain _now_ as she glanced toward Dr. Wilson's office. She didn't want to upset him, but she didn't want to upset Dr. Cuddy, either. "But…but he's in there with a patient. They've only been in there for about fifteen minutes, and…well…I'm afraid it's bad news, so…he asked me not to disturb him unless it's absolutely necessary."

Cuddy frowned, gazing thoughtfully at the door.

Immediately concerned that her words might have sounded disrespectful or off-putting, Erin amended, "But, of course, if it _is_ necessary, I'll let him know you're here. I'm sure he'd want to talk to you…" As she spoke, Erin lifted the receiver of the phone on her desk, her finger hovering over the intercom button.

"No…no, that's okay, Erin."

_So she _does_ know my name, after all…_

Cuddy's indecision seemed to fade, her shoulders relaxing as she shook her head, holding up a halting hand to stop her. "I don't want to disturb him if he's in the middle of a sensitive conversation." She turned away, taking a few steps before turning again toward Wilson's office, a pensive expression on her face. "Have him give me a call when he finishes with his patient."

"Of course, Dr. Cuddy."

Crisis averted, Erin relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief as she returned to her paperwork.

By the time he reached his apartment, House's temper had cooled somewhat from the confrontation with Cuddy. As he thought back over the conversation, he was a bit embarrassed by some of the things he had said, especially the emotion and vulnerability he had betrayed in his anger.

_And it's not like it's _her_ fault, anyway…she's just trying to help…but I don't _need_ her help…I just need her to leave me alone and quit treating me like some kind of helpless child…_

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, closing his eyes for a moment as he let out a weary sigh.

_But…she's right…you _did _call _her_._

He wished he hadn't said the things he'd said to her, wished he hadn't stormed out. She hadn't deserved it, and he had really only succeeded in making things more difficult for himself. There was less to occupy his mind in his apartment than there was in the clinic – but it was too late to go back now. Neither his pride nor his weary, battered body would allow it.

The more he thought about it, the idea of a long soak in a tub of steaming water had a definite appeal to it.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the room, dim and shadowed, lit only by faint shreds of sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains in the kitchen. He tossed his keys down on the end table and headed for the bathroom to start the water running in the tub.

Once the water temperature was adjusted to perfection, House stood up straight again, bracing his hands on the sink to steady himself as he regarded his haggard, exhausted reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, tension lines on his brow and around his mouth, revealed the toll the stress and pain of the past few weeks had taken on him.

_But it's over now,_ he reminded himself. _I've got Wilson's keys, and Cuddy knows, and he won't dare mess with me again…_

He only wished that he could be _sure_.

The memory of soft arms around him, holding him as he released pain he had held back far longer than Wilson's abuse had lasted, and the warm sense of safety and shelter those arms had given him, filled his mind. All at once, he intensely regretted his decision to leave the hospital, and Cuddy's presence – annoying at times, but undeniably reassuring.

Pushing the memories from his mind, he turned the water off, testing it with his fingertips before straightening. He took his cane in his hand again and stepped out into the living room again, headed for his bedroom and a set of clean pajamas for after the bath.

His heart leapt up into his throat at the sight of Wilson, seated on his sofa. Idly fidgeting with something in his hands, Wilson sat utterly silent and watching him through cold, dark eyes. As those eyes met House's startled gaze, Wilson's lips crept upward in a chilling smirk.

"Hey, House. You're home early," he observed casually. "Not feeling well today?"

Stunned, House was silent for a long moment, trying to steady himself, his heart racing with apprehension. "Get out," he finally ordered, the barest hint of a tremor underneath the angry bravado in his voice. "Now."

"No." Wilson shook his head, still smiling. "I really don't think I will."

House's wary gaze was drawn downward by the twirling motion of Wilson's fingertips, and his stomach dropped when he saw the glint of silver between them – one of his own slender kitchen knives in Wilson's hands.

_Must've been in the kitchen when I went into the bathroom…should have checked the house first, should have made sure it was empty before letting down my guard…_

It was too late for second thoughts now.

As well as his throbbing leg would allow, House hurried back toward the door, hoping to get out before Wilson could stop him – out to the street where the threat of potential witnesses might protect him from a fatal attack at the hands of his "best friend". Wilson was still sitting on the couch when he started to move, so maybe – just _maybe_ – there was a chance that he could make it, if he moved quickly.

Wilson was quicker.

House had barely opened the door again when the force of Wilson's fist slammed it shut again. The younger man moved in close behind House, trapping him between the door and Wilson's body. House tried to turn around, but Wilson was too close for him to maneuver his cane well enough to do so.

"Get off me," House growled, pushing back against him in an effort to gain a little space.

Wilson had no intention of letting him do that. In a swift, brutal motion, he caught House's injured hand and slammed it hard against the door. House's knees buckled as he gasped in agony, his head falling forward against the door. Wilson quickly locked the door again, then used House's momentary weakness to snatch the cane from his hand. He drew it across House's throat, yanking it back hard with both hands and completely cutting off his air supply as he maneuvered him backward, away from the door.

House's uninjured hand fumbled, searching frantically for purchase against the slick wood, pressed too tightly against his throat to allow him to get his fingers between. He gasped for breath, struggling to draw enough breath to cry out, to ask Wilson to stop, to say _anything_ at all – but the effort was in vain.

Wilson jerked him back hard against him, his lips brushing House's ear as he snarled softly, "_Shut up_! You don't make a _sound_, do you understand me? You keep your stupid mouth _shut_!"

House nodded desperately, fighting against the darkness that was swiftly overtaking his vision. In an effort to show his submission and get Wilson to relent, he held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

Wilson kept the cane pressed across House's windpipe a few moments longer, until the older man's knees gave out and his body began to go limp. Finally, he removed it, tossing it onto the couch across the room as House sank to the floor on his knees, doubled over with his face to the floor as he gasped for breath, his good hand clutching his bruising throat.

Crouching behind him, Wilson took out the knife he had tucked into his pocket when he had crossed the room. House straightened slightly, flinching when he saw the silver glint of the blade approaching his face, but Wilson reached out a strong hand to grip his throat, pulling him back against Wilson's chest. House tensed as the smooth, cool steel brushed his cheek, drawing in a sharp breath.

"Shh," Wilson warned him. "Don't move…don't fight…just keep still and do as you're told. Is that clear?" The younger man's voice shook dangerously, as did the hand holding the blade. The situation had come very near to slipping out of his control – too near for Wilson's comfort.

House nodded, the motion difficult against the hand at his throat – tight enough to restrain him, while not quite restricting his breathing. His heart was racing, his head swimming from the lack of oxygen, as he tried to think of a way out of the potentially deadly situation in which he had found himself.

"Just relax," Wilson advised, his breath quick and shallow, but his voice beginning to calm. "You just relax and don't do anything stupid, okay? We're just gonna have a little talk. That's all. I've got a few questions for you, and you're going to answer them, aren't you?"

House nodded again, hoping to appease him. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay…whatever you want…"

"Good…that's a good start. Let's start with an easy question, then, shall we?"

Wilson sounded much more in control, now that things were beginning to go his way again. His left hand shifted from House's throat to grip his hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat to the blade as his right hand trailed it down from his face. Wilson's demanding voice was barely over a whisper, his breath hot against House's ear.

"How much does Cuddy know?"


	17. Chapter 17

"How much does Cuddy know

"How much does Cuddy know?"

Wilson's question echoed in House's thoughts, his heart and mind both racing as he tried to think of the right answer. House had years of experience in lying to Wilson – but by the same token, Wilson had years of experience at reading House, and could usually tell when he was being lied to. House had to come up with something that would both convince and satisfy Wilson.

That might have been an easier task, had Wilson not appeared to be, at that moment, completely insane.

"She doesn't know anything," House gasped out the words, wincing as Wilson pressed the blade in his hand tighter against his throat. "Wilson…this doesn't make sense…"

"Liar," Wilson hissed in his ear.

He released his grip on House's hair, but a moment later, slammed his fist painfully into House's wounded thigh. House's back arched in agony and he bit back a cry of pain as Wilson wrapped his arm around House's shoulders, drawing him back against him and preventing him from trying to pull away.

"You're gonna tell me the truth, House," Wilson snarled. "Or you're gonna die."

"Put the knife down," House gasped. "Or I tell you nothing."

"House – you're in no position to be making demands," Wilson reminded him. "I'm the one who's gonna say how this goes, not you!"

"I'm the one who's gonna say whatever it is you're wanting to hear." House's voice was insistent, despite the fact that it was trembling with pain and fear. "I can't tell you anything if I'm dead." He hesitated a moment, before adding in a softer, conciliatory tone, "Or…if I'm too scared to think straight. So…either way…you're not going to get what you want…unless you put the knife away."

Wilson was still for a long moment, not moving the knife, or saying a word. House didn't realize that he was holding his breath, his entire body tensed in anticipation of Wilson's decision, for better or worse.

Finally, cursing softly under his breath, Wilson removed the knife from House's throat, tucking it into his pocket, though he kept his arm across House's neck for a few moments longer.

"Do _not…move_," he ordered coldly, before warily moving his arm, pressing down hard on House's shoulder as he rose to his feet.

As soon as he was standing, without warning or provocation, Wilson pressed the hard toe of his shoe into the damaged place on House's thigh, a grim smile forming on his lips as House let out an anguished groan of surprise and pain. Wilson only increased the pressure as House doubled over, one hand weakly pushing at Wilson's offending foot, while the other clutched uselessly at the source of the pain.

"You can hardly stand," Wilson observed, his voice soft and controlled. "Your leg's in worse shape than it's ever been, and I'd imagine your left hand is hurting pretty badly right now, too. Not to mention the recent head injuries, comas, withdrawal…" He pressed down harder with his foot, and House bit back a strangled cry of pain, as Wilson concluded, "You're in no shape to fight back right now, House. I think we both know that. Don't we?"

House's head was bowed toward the floor, his eyes tightly closed, his jaw clenched with pain, but he nodded, silently conceding Wilson's point.

Unfortunately, that did not appease the furious younger man, who bent down over House without moving his foot, applying even greater pressure to his thigh. He reached down to grip House's hair, forcing his head up to meet his eyes in a sharp, knowing look as he continued, his voice soft and cold.

"But what I think you _don't_ know – _yet_ – is that you're not going to _outsmart_ me this time, either, House. I know you too well for you to be able to play me anymore. So you'd best not even try, because all that's gonna do…" He shifted his foot, grinding his heel cruelly into the wound on House's leg, his face twisting with malicious satisfaction as House gasped in silent agony. "…is make me angry. And you really don't want that."

Finally, he released his grip on House's hair and removed his foot, allowing House to collapse forward, trembling with pain, gasping for breath as he struggled to recover. When all was quiet for a few moments, he raised his head, fighting through the pain to see where Wilson had gone, what he was doing.

His heart sank with apprehension when he saw Wilson go to the door and double-check the locks, then go to each window and draw the blinds. Wilson stopped again at the end table beside where House knelt, picking up the phone and disconnecting it from the wire, then hurling it violently across the room, where it hit the wall with an audible crack.

House flinched when Wilson crouched in front of him again, grabbing his arm roughly to keep him from pulling away as he reached into House's pocket and pulled out his cell phone, tucking the phone into his own pocket with a knowing wink in House's direction.

The unspoken message was clear – Wilson would not be falling for the same trick twice.

"Now…" Wilson's tone was purposeful, satisfied, as he grabbed the collar of House's shirt in his free hand and pulled him to his feet, backing him up awkwardly until his legs hit the couch, and he stumbled backward onto it. "You're going to tell me the truth."

Wilson sat down on the edge of the coffee table facing House, leaning in with one arm braced on the arm of the couch as he took in House's shaken appearance with a cold smile. He tilted his head slightly downward, seeking House's gaze until the older man reluctantly met his eyes, before he finally spoke in a soft voice, each word over-pronounced in false patience.

"How much…does Cuddy…know?"

"Nothing," House insisted, shaking his head, his voice carefully quiet and subdued. "Wilson – she doesn't know anything. She was worried…because…because of the injuries. It was…obvious that something was wrong, and she…she just wanted to know what was going on. But…I didn't tell her. I didn't."

A sick feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach – because it was all just so horribly familiar.

_Why did they come here? Who did you tell? Stupid, ungrateful little brat! How much did you tell them?_

His heart pounding with fear, House looked away, afraid that Wilson would see his memories on his face. His eyes widened slightly when they fell on his cane, where Wilson had carelessly discarded it on the couch, right beside the spot where he now sat. He lowered his eyes, careful not to look back at Wilson, not wanting to draw his attention to the cane, hoping he had not yet noticed it.

"So…she just…randomly showed up at your apartment Thursday night. Just decided to stop by and have a nice long chat about your klutziness, and what to do about it." Wilson's voice dripped with acid sarcasm, clearly disgusted with House and his inability to keep their secret.

"She just…was worried. Like I told you," House insisted. "You know, things like _this_ aren't exactly inconspicuous." As he spoke, he raised his injured hand, nodding toward it, and was unable to keep a trace of his frustration and contempt from his voice, despite his knowledge that it was a _really_ bad time for it. "You wanna keep a secret, you need to be…you know…_secretive_."

His voice broke off in a choked whimper of agony as Wilson grasped the slightly extended hand, squeezing it brutally within his own. House tried to pull his hand away, but Wilson easily followed his motion, keeping it tight in a vicious grip, crushing the damaged flesh and bone without mercy.

"Yeah," he agreed with a calm, thoughtful nod, though his tone was sharp, subtly accusing. "Yeah, that makes sense. I never thought of that. What would I do without you, House, to keep me from making an idiot of myself?"

Without taking his eyes from House's face, contorted with pain, Wilson reached across him and picked up the cane, pressing its curved handle under House's chin and forcing his head back. "And you must really think that I _am_ an idiot – don't you, House?"

House swallowed hard, eyes closed, shaking his head. "No," he whispered. "No, I…I don't…"

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Wilson demanded, his voice hard as steel, soft as silk, as he pressed the cane into House's throat, hard enough to make him gag. "Did you really think I'd be that careless?"

"I…I wasn't going to…I didn't…"

"You were thinking it." Wilson's voice was smug and certain. "I know you were." He shrugged. "Can't really blame you…" He slowly withdrew the cane, releasing House's throbbing hand and drawing back a bit to hold the cane between both hands, looking at it speculatively. "…it had to be tempting. These things can do a lot of damage…"

House tensed at the tone in Wilson's voice, the suggestion in his words, certain that he was going to retaliate for the few blows House had managed to get in the other night. He turned his face away, bracing himself for a blow. Wilson rose to his feet, and House felt the queasy feeling in his stomach intensify as his former friend towered over him, the cane in his hands, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

"So…" Wilson went on, tapping the end of the cane lightly into his palm to punctuate his words, his tone low and calm and thoughtful, "…let's try this another way. You just…start at the beginning. Tell me how and when Cuddy showed up…and every…little…thing…you two talked about." His voice became softer, quietly furious, as he added, "And you will watch that smart mouth of yours with me, or you'll find yourself _eating_ this cane. Do I make myself clear?"

House nodded hurriedly. After a quiet moment, he glanced up at Wilson, uncertain.

"_Now_," Wilson prodded, rolling his eyes impatiently. His tone, his demeanor, were casual, but there was a dangerous edge of warning to his voice, a frightening glint in his eyes, that made House's mouth dry and his heart lurch with fear.

"She…she came by the…the last night…you were here," House began, hesitant, thinking through his words before he spoke, trying to remember how much Wilson would already know. "She…wanted to buy me dinner. She insisted, really…and…she was asking about…what happened to my hand…why I seemed to be…always getting hurt lately…" House's voice softened with shame over the words. "She…left her cell phone here…"

He looked up at Wilson again, trying to gauge his reaction. Wilson nodded slowly, and House could see him mentally putting the pieces together. "What did you tell her?" Wilson asked softly. "About your hand?"

"I said I…closed it in a drawer. Like you said." House raised his eyes to Wilson's with an effort, wanting to leave no doubt as to his truthfulness. "I didn't…didn't tell her anything. She…actually got pretty frustrated, because…I wouldn't talk to her much at all."

Wilson studied his expression for a long moment, before nodding his acceptance of his answer. "So she brought you home. I tried to talk to you. You went all stupid on me with the phone and the threats and…" Wilson's voice broke off, his hands clenched tightly around the ends of the cane as he struggled visibly to rein in his temper.

House's entire body was tense, awaiting the violent release of that temper – but it did not come, not yet.

"What happened then?" Wilson asked at last, his voice hushed, unnaturally calm.

Uncertain what Cuddy might have told Wilson when she had talked to him, House decided to stay as near to the truth as possible. "She…came back for her cell phone, and…and saw…the shape I was in. I…I told her I surprised a burglar. She insisted on…checking me over, being sure I was all right. That's all that happened. I didn't tell her anything."

"Except about the Vicodin. Which you're obviously back on."

House flinched, expecting punishment for that particular offense. "She…she asked," he whispered hesitantly. "She…could tell…I was going through…w-withdrawals…"

"That's great, House. That's just great!" Wilson snapped, pacing angrily between the couch and the coffee table a couple of times before stopping in front of House again, glaring down at him. "You had to tell her I hadn't prescribed your pills, get her all suspicious of me…"

"I didn't. I told her I…I hadn't told you," House objected.

"Right. Like she'd believe that," Wilson scoffed. "House, I swear, sometimes I think you're a bigger moron than all the morons you're constantly complaining about." He paused, his voice rising in anger as he continued, "She _didn't _buy it, House. She came to me all accusing and angry and sure that I was being a lousy friend to you…"

Wilson suddenly leaned down over House, his hands fisted against the couch on either side of House's shoulders, the cane clenched tightly in his right hand as he sneered in House's face, his voice barely over a chilling whisper.

"She thinks we're _friends,_ House." His voice was mocking, disgusted, as if the idea was so utterly ludicrous as to be laughable. "She actually thinks…after what you did…that I'd forgive you, and still be your friend."

House flinched. The words hurt as much as any of Wilson's blows.

"I'll _never_ be your friend again, House," Wilson whispered, meeting House's eyes, his own dark gaze glittering with hate. "You don't deserve it."

House lowered his eyes. He swallowed hard before whispering, "I…I know…"

"So…that's really all that happened, huh? You didn't tell her anything?" Wilson's eyes were piercing, searching House's face for any signs of deception.

Hoping none were visible, House raised his eyes to meet Wilson's again, holding his gaze firmly despite his apprehension as he replied, "I didn't. Wilson – please. I _wouldn't_."

Wilson stared at him for a long moment, an appraising look in his dark eyes. Finally, after an interminable length of time during which House fought back his panic, somehow managing to stay calm, Wilson nodded, letting out a heavy sigh of apparent relief. He smiled, raising his empty hand from the sofa to give House a rough, patronizing pat on the cheek.

"Good. I knew you wouldn't let me down," he smirked.

All at once, the smile faded into an expression of murderous rage, and he drew back his fist, backhanding House across the face before gripping a handful of his hair and jerking his head back, leaning in close to hiss an accusation in his face.

"_Liar_."

"No," House gasped, raising his good hand in a placating gesture. "Wilson…no, I'm not lying…"

"_Shut up_!" Wilson snarled, slapping him across the face again, then twisting the cane around to drive the base of it painfully into House's stomach. "I knew you'd try to make a fool out of me, House! You _liar_!"

"Wilson…calm down," House advised him in a quiet, trembling voice, gasping for breath, his good hand clutching his stomach. "You need to calm down…"

"_You_ need to shut your lying mouth!" Wilson shot back, furious. "You're _going_ to tell me the truth, House!"

Wilson's jaw set with determination as he forced House's good arm down against the sofa, pinning it firmly in place with one knee. House barely struggled, in too much pain from the blows he had taken. Wilson reached into his pocket with one hand, while grabbing House's free arm with the other.

"What…what are you doing?" House demanded nervously, trying to yank his arm away from Wilson's firm grasp.

Vindictively, Wilson slid his hand down to House's wrist, twisting the injured hand viciously. House stifled a cry of pain, his head falling back against the back of the sofa, his struggles stilling for the moment. When he looked up, his eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the hypodermic needle in Wilson's hand.

"No!" he protested, trying again to pull free, though his efforts were weaker from the pain of Wilson's hold on his injured hand. "What are you doing? Don't!"

"Shut up," Wilson muttered, plunging the needle downward without hesitation, swiftly pushing the clear fluid inside it into House's arm. He leaned in close, smiling maliciously at the fear and confusion in House's wide eyes. Wilson's voice lowered to a whisper as he sneered, "You said I couldn't break you…because _he_ never could?"

House cringed at the reminder of his painful past, ashamed now at how much of it Wilson knew. His mind was racing, trying to imagine what Wilson might have given him, but panic muddled his thoughts, and he couldn't make it make sense.

Or – perhaps it was the drug – whatever it was – muddling his thoughts…

Wilson's voice was barely a breath against his ear as he added, "Maybe…he just wasn't trying hard enough."

Those chilling words were the last thing House heard, before everything around him faded into darkness.


	18. Chapter 18

Quiet sounds began to filter through the darkness surrounding House, though they sounded distant and muffled

Quiet sounds began to filter through the darkness, sounding distant and muffled. House struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy. Finally, he managed to lift them, taking in the familiar room, which somehow seemed too bright, distorted and strange.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings, to realize where he was – lying on his back on the couch in his apartment.

From the bathroom he could hear the sound of running water. Quick, purposeful footsteps on the kitchen tile confirmed that Wilson was still there. Strangely, however, the sounds seemed distorted, echoing with an odd, arrhythmic cadence in his ears. His furniture and other surroundings seemed to shift and waver in his vision, and he closed his eyes, feeling nauseated and disoriented.

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and though he wasn't sure for all the distortion, he thought that it was probably a bit faster than it should have been. He tried to steady his breathing, only to find that drawing breath at all was difficult—possibly the most alarming thing he had noticed thus far.

House tried to push himself up on his good arm – and immediately became aware of yet another problem.

The arm wouldn't cooperate.

His mind flashed back to the dark look of menace in Wilson's eyes as he had plunged the hypodermic needle into House's arm…a mere ten or fifteen seconds before House had lost consciousness.

_What the hell did he give me?_

He tried again to sit up, fighting off panic when he found that his muscles simply would not respond enough to allow him to move from the couch on his own.

_No wonder he left me here alone... unattended... He knows I can't go anywhere… What the hell did he _give_ me?_

He closed his eyes, focusing on his own labored breathing, in and out, trying to make his muddled thoughts come together into some sort of coherent diagnostic process.

_Respiratory problems… lack of muscle control, or… or maybe… maybe paralysis… problems with… depth perception… dizziness… aryth… aryth…_ House frowned, troubled by the fact that the word he was searching for evaded his mind. _This is basic… easy… I know this…why can't I think of it?_

After a few moments longer of fruitless mental struggle, House gave up, feeling a tight, clenching feeling of fear in the pit of his stomach at the thought of what the unknown drug Wilson had given him might be doing to his mind.

_Add confusion and possible memory loss to the equation…an equation I can't begin to figure out right now…_

He tried again to rise from the couch, disappointed and frightened to find that he seemed to lack the strength and coordination to do so at the moment. His heart rate accelerated further when he heard Wilson's footsteps approaching, and looked up with hazy double vision to see the younger man moving toward the couch where he lay.

"Hey, look who's up," Wilson remarked, his tone conversational and casual as he sat down on the edge of the coffee table. "I wasn't sure you'd wake up so soon – or at all, for that matter."

_Well, _that's_ certainly not encouraging…_

"Wh-what…" House struggled to get the words out, his tongue feeling thick and unwieldy in his mouth as he tried to make his eyes focus on Wilson's face. "What did you…d-do to me?"

Wilson smiled at the expected question. "Relax. You're conscious. That's something," he reminded House with a careless shrug. "Lucky for you I know what I'm doing. I _am_ a doctor, after all."

House frowned, his confused mind only able to make about half of Wilson's words make sense. "What…did you g-give me?" he persisted, aware with some alarm that his own voice was slurred and breathless.

"It's a cocktail of ketamine and sodium pentothal," Wilson answered without hesitation, his voice calm and in control. "You'll probably feel sick when it wears off, and have one hell of a headache – some nasty nightmares, too, some of them waking. The drugs haven't really even had enough time to fully kick in, yet. Once they do, the ketamine should keep your perceptions distorted and your muscles relaxed enough to keep you under control; and the sodium pentothal will make you finally tell me the truth about your conversations with Cuddy…" Wilson's voice trailed off, irritation replacing his smile. "_What_?"

House had struggled to focus through Wilson's explanation, and managed to process most of it. Before Wilson was finished, he was smiling in weak amusement. "As a _doctor_… y-you should know…" he explained with an effort, "…no such thing as… t-truth serum… I can… l-lie just as easily with the… s-sodium… sodium… the stuff you gave me… as I can w-without it."

"But you won't." Wilson's voice sounded satisfied, though his eyes glittered with anger. "The dosage I gave you should be just right to make sure that you're nice and cooperative for as long as I need you to be with minimal permanent damage." He paused, shrugging again, his eyes narrowing as he added, "Or, the sodium pentothal could push your heart into tachycardia, the ketamine could give you a seizure or hallucinations, and the combined effect of the two could make you stop breathing."

He leaned in closer, grabbing House's hair, jerking his head up off the couch until it was inches from Wilson's own to whisper with a cold, nasty smile.

"Either way works for me."

It was a cold, wet winter day – the kind of day when car accidents were frequent, and colds and other, nastier viruses were in abundance.

All in all, it was a hellish day for the clinic.

All afternoon, Cuddy found herself racing between one crisis and another, doing her best to ensure that her staff had what they needed when they needed it, and that each patient got the care they required. She barely had time to breathe, let alone think about anything outside the four walls of the clinic itself.

She was exhausted, her nerves swiftly fraying, her mind and emotions taxed beyond measure within two hours after she left Wilson's office – but there was no time to take a break, no time to stop to think about anything but what was going on in any given moment.

In the midst of the barely controlled chaos – House didn't cross her mind.

It took about twenty minutes for the drugs to take full effect.

During the waiting period, Wilson was impatient.

When he pulled House up into a sitting position on the couch, the older man had nearly pitched forward onto the floor, unable to maintain enough balance to hold himself upright, his vision and depth perception greatly affected by the high dosage of ketamine with which Wilson had injected him.

Wilson roughly positioned House so that he was sitting up on the sofa, his head lolling heavily against the back of the sofa, one weak hand clutching at his pounding chest as he gasped for breath.

"Easy," Wilson urged him in a quiet, even voice, sounding strangely professional given the circumstances. "Deep breaths…it'll pass…calm down, House, or you're gonna give yourself a heart attack…"

You _may have given me a heart attack_, House amended resentfully in his mind, though he lacked both the nerve and the clarity of mind to speak the words aloud.

After a few minutes, however, the initial effects of the drug cocktail Wilson had administered began to fade, and House felt his breathing begin to return to normal, as well as some of his muscle control. He still felt disoriented, the room spinning around him in vibrant, unnatural color; but words began to make sense again, and his speech became clearer – if a bit more rambling than usual.

He was vaguely aware, through the drug-induced haze that surrounded him, that he was not supposed to tell Wilson that Cuddy knew what he had done.

He just couldn't remember why not.

After a little while – it didn't seem to matter anymore.

Wilson's voice was so gentle, so soothing and understanding, as he pressed House for the answers he craved; and House realized with muted alarm that his own emotions were dangerously near to the surface. Just the soft, almost tender sound of Wilson's voice, in the wake of the brutal abuse he had endured, was enough to nearly bring him to tears.

A part of him was aware that it was the drugs, heightening every sensation, both physical and emotional – but when Wilson promised that if he only told him the truth, everything could be right again between them… things could go back to the way they once were… House's drug-addled mind and emotions clung to the words with pitiful desperation.

Within minutes, he was pouring out the whole story to Wilson's eager ears – every detail of the night Cuddy had found him in his apartment, even to the embarrassing account of his own emotional breakdown.

Wilson was strangely quiet, just listening and taking it in, as House finally concluded his rambling, overly detailed explanation.

"She…she kind of guessed; I really didn't have to tell her much, but she knows what you did, and she's _really_ mad at _you_ right now…" House let out a very inappropriate laugh, pointing an almost mocking finger in Wilson's direction, then waving his hand dismissively as he went on, "…but she'll get over it. I'll just tell her that it was all my fault, because of killing your girlfriend and all, and that you're not gonna do it again anyway, and she'll forget all about it. It's not like she _really_ cares, anyway. Deep down, I'm pretty sure she must know that I brought it on myself, too. She's got to know; she's a smart woman… and you're a good person, Wilson. You're a… a better person than I am. I don't really deserve you; I know that. But I _need_ you, Wilson, and I know you've… gotta know that. You'll forgive me now, right, Wilson?" House looked up at Wilson, who was standing now, through weary, pleading eyes, clouded and feverish with the mixture of the drugs and his own emotions. "I told you the truth – so, you'll forgive me now?"

Wilson just smiled coldly down at him, his eyes angry, his voice frighteningly calm.

"I told you to keep your mouth shut, House, and you went running it to Cuddy the first chance you got. You think that deserves my _forgiveness_? Nothing you could ever do could earn _forgiveness_ from me, House."

Wilson drew back his fist and backhanded House hard across the face, knocking him back against the couch, then leaned down over him, waiting until House wearily opened his eyes and looked at him, fearful and confused, to continue in a slow, measured voice, carefully pronouncing each word to be sure House understood.

"You are a worthless, pathetic piece of shit I should have thrown out a long time ago, House. You are _nothing_ to me. I'll kill you before I'll ever _forgive _you. I _hate_ you, House."

The drugs had lowered his usual inhibitions, and tears spilled from House's eyes at the vicious words. "Don't say that, Wilson," he whispered pleadingly, his voice slightly slurred. "Please don't say that. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry I killed her, I didn't mean to. I never _liked_ Amber, but I never wanted her to _die_…"

"Shut up!" Wilson snarled, slapping him again in fury. "You _shut up_, House! You don't deserve to say her name!"

"I'm sorry," House sobbed. "I'm sorry, Wilson…I'm so sorry…"

"I said _shut up_!"

Wilson's voice was nearly a scream in his rage, as he hit House again, several times, knocking him over onto his side on the sofa with the force of his attack. Jerking him back up again to face him, Wilson brought his face within inches of House's, a cruel smile in place again, barely masking the anger he had barely managed to rein in.

"You just never learn, do you, House?" he sneered. "You've been doing this all your life – running your stupid mouth when you should just keep it shut – haven't you? But not anymore. You're gonna learn your lesson tonight, or die trying!"

Wilson stood up straight again, dragging House with him. House had recovered some of his muscle control, but was too disoriented by the distorted sights and sounds around him to actually walk on his own. That didn't actually matter, however, as Wilson dragged him forcefully across the room, one hand on his arm in a vice-like grip, the other clutching his collar as he forced House into the bathroom doorway, then stopped. Wilson watched, his smile widening as House struggled to take in the sight before him – as horrified understanding dawned in his eyes.

"No," House whimpered, shaking his head violently, struggling to back out of the room, but held firmly in place by Wilson's harsh hands. "No… please, don't… Wilson, no… not… not this… _please_, not this…"

It was 8:30pm when the last clinic patient walked out the door.

It was 8:32pm when Cuddy remembered the phone call she had been expecting from Wilson, when he finished with his patient – the phone call she had never received.

A cold, heavy sensation in the pit of her stomach, she made her way upstairs to his office, taking out her cell phone as she walked. Of course, Wilson had left for the day – but _when_ had he left?

_His assistant probably just forgot to tell him to call me… that's all… nothing to worry about…_

She dialed House's number on her phone, waiting through several rings before his voicemail picked up.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling, her breath quickening as very real fear for House began to set in.

She dialed Wilson's number next – and again, received no answer.

She hurried back through the halls to her office, barely taking time to snatch her coat and purse off her desk before she rushed out the doors.

As swiftly as she could, Cuddy got into her car and started the engine, speeding down the road at rather unsafe speeds, in her desperation to reach House's apartment, and reassure herself that he was really safe.

_It's probably nothing… he's probably fine… nothing to worry about at all…_


	19. Chapter 19

Cold…mind-numbing, bone-rattling cold shook through House's body in violent shudders

Cold…mind-numbing, bone-rattling cold shook through House's body in violent shudders.

There was no escape, no shelter from the icy agony that surrounded him.

His arms and legs were still too weak from the drugs to move them much, and what motion had been left to him was now hampered by the numbing cold. Any slight attempt he made to get away was immediately stopped by Wilson, and with pathetic, humiliating ease.

"P-please," House whispered, the word barely audible, through chattering teeth. "Please…stop… Please…l-let me…go…"

"Don't think so, House," Wilson replied, his voice casual as his hand pressed down on House's shoulder, forcing him further into the cold. "You have to learn to keep your mouth shut. You were supposed to keep our secret, but you didn't. You _betrayed _me, House." He paused, crouching down beside House to meet his eyes in an accusing look of disgust.

"You took everything that ever mattered to me…and then, instead of taking what was coming to you like a man, you had to go running to _Cuddy _for help. You've ruined everything – my entire life." His voice softened, becoming even crueler in its gentleness, as he concluded, "You just can't help but screw up anything you try to do, can you, House?"

_You can't do anything right, can you, Greg? So stupid! "Gifted" – right! You have a _gift _for destroying everything you touch!_

House flinched at the words, so familiar, so bitterly painful – but so much more so coming from the lips of his dearest friend.

"I'm s-sorry," he whispered, his chest aching from the deep, silent sobs that shook him, his face streaked with tears. "I'm so…s-sorry…"

"Doesn't matter." Wilson shrugged, indifferent to House's suffering. "You can't go back and fix it now, can you? You've already ruined my life beyond repair."

House didn't try to get away again, just lay there, his trembling arms crossed over his bare chest, shivering from shock and cold and the agony of Wilson's hatred. Wilson stood up straight again, pacing back and forth across the bathroom floor for a few moments, until he stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. He turned back toward House with a sly smile.

"_Unless_…maybe there _is_ something you can do to fix this, House." He crouched down again, reaching out a hand to House's cheek, gently tilting House's face upward toward his own. "You want to make it up to me, House? You want to make things right?"

House stared up into Wilson's eyes, desperate, nodding in eager, pleading acceptance of whatever suggestion Wilson might make. The drugs in his system heightened his emotions, destroying his inhibitions, and leaving him vulnerable to Wilson's cruel manipulations.

"Please," House whispered, earnest and contrite. "I'll…d-do anything you want… please…"

"Good…" Wilson smiled with cold satisfaction. "…now here's what we're going to do…"

Cuddy's heart lurched when she arrived at House's apartment to see an ambulance parked outside, blue lights flashing while about a dozen people milled about, going in and out, back and forth from the apartment to the ambulance.

A police car was parked behind the ambulance, and as her eyes adjusted to the general chaos around them, Cuddy was stunned to see Wilson standing next to a police officer. He appeared to be giving his account of what had happened, his words quick and clear, his hands animated as he spoke to the calmly nodding officer beside him.

_House…where's House?_

Cuddy moved quickly toward the apartment, glancing through the open doors of the ambulance as she passed it, noting that it was still empty. Wilson saw her coming and tried to get her attention, but she just cast a warning glare in his direction as she passed him, making her way past several paramedics and a police officer into House's apartment.

"House?" she called out urgently as she entered.

Her eyes welled with tears of relief when she saw House sitting on the sofa. His hair was wet and he was shivering despite the thermal blanket the paramedics had given him, and there were dark circles under his reddened, shell-shocked eyes. Fresh bruises marked his face, and Cuddy was willing to bet that beneath the blanket that covered him, there were probably other new injuries.

"Ma'am…Ma'am, you're going to need to stay back!" one of the paramedics advised her sharply as she crouched in front of House, reaching out to take his shaking hands in hers.

She ignored him, looking up into House's eyes, reaching up a hand to brush his damp, disheveled hair back from his forehead. "What happened?" she asked, troubled by the lost, distant look in his eyes. "What did he do to you?"

"I…I did it," House objected, barely able to get the words out, his voice a breathless whisper. I d-did it to…m-myself…"

Cuddy frowned, shaking her head in denial and confusion. "House…what are you talking about? You didn't do anything…"

"Ma'am, we have to get him to the ambulance," the paramedic insisted, reaching for Cuddy's arm to steer her away from House.

She jerked away, turning to glare at him as she snapped, "Give me a minute!"

"He's injected himself with a very high level of some very dangerous drugs," the paramedic snapped back at her, becoming impatient in his urgency. "We have to get him to the hospital!"

"_What_?" Cuddy turned back to House, eyes wide with horror. "What did he give you?"

"H-he didn't," House insisted, shaking his head, clutching the blanket tighter around him and lowering his eyes. "I-I t-took the drugs m-myself. I w-was…t-trying to…to…kill myself. I r-ran a bath and got in it, and…and injected m-myself with k-ketamine and sodium pentothal…"

Confused, Cuddy shook her head, raising his chin to get him to look at her again. "House…why would you…?"

"I l-lied…about Wilson," he continued, still refusing to meet her eyes. "I was m-mad because he…w-wouldn't just…g-get over the Amber thing, so…so I t-tried to m-make you think…he was…was h-hurting me…" He glanced up at her for a moment before looking down again with a shaky sigh. "I did it all to m-myself…he n-never hurt me…"

"House," Cuddy objected, stunned and confused, "I saw what he did to you! I saw how he hurt you... How can you say…?"

"I m-made it up…it was all…l-lies…" His voice was barely a whisper, and Cuddy was intensely troubled by the tears she saw flowing down his face.

"Ma'am…we've got to get him to the hospital." Cuddy rose to her feet again to see another paramedic, apparently the first one's boss, facing her with a stern expression. "We understand you're worried, but we want to make sure he's going to be all right. You have to let us take care of him."

Cuddy nodded, her jaw setting in an expression of frustration and fear. "I'm riding with him," she stated firmly, meeting the paramedic's eyes with a look that dared him to deny her.

He nodded. "We'll be ready to pull out in about two minutes. You'd better get out there."

But Cuddy was already on her way out the door again, stalking with long, furious strides toward Wilson, who was still talking with the police officer.

"...been in there for hours, the water was so cold. I think he must have got the dosage wrong, because he's conscious, and that means the drugs must be on their way out of his system…"

Wilson's voice trailed off as he saw her approaching, and turned to face her. "Cuddy." His voice held a very convincing relief. "Thank God you're here…"

His words were abruptly cut off by a breathtaking slap across his face, a blow with enough force to turn Wilson's head to the side, and make Cuddy stagger as she delivered it. Wilson raised a slow, stunned hand to his cheek as he straightened, staring at her in disbelief. The officer just stood there, dumbfounded by the unexpected attack.

Moving into Wilson's space, her hands fisted at her sides, Cuddy's voice was nearly a shout. "_What_ did you _do_ to him?" she demanded.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Wilson sputtered, touching his lip and staring at the blood that stained his fingertips. "I haven't done anything…I…I found him…"

"This man probably saved your friend's life, Ma'am," the officer informed her in a disapproving voice. "If he hadn't found Dr. House when he did…"

"_No_!" Cuddy cut him off, her voice a furious, strangled cry torn from her throat. "You _did_ this to him!" she insisted, pointing her finger at his chest in accusation. "What, it wasn't enough that he nearly died trying to save her? That he's nearly died since then trying to make up for something that wasn't his fault?"

"Cuddy, you don't understand," Wilson quietly protested, his voice trembling and his eyes fearful. "I didn't hurt him! I found him in his bathtub…he'd shot himself up with something…I called the paramedics immediately. I…I wouldn't hurt him, Cuddy!"

"_Liar_!" she snarled, raising her hand to strike him again, but the officer caught her wrist, holding her back. "I _know_ what you did to him! He told me! And I know you're responsible for _this_!"

"Ma'am, you're going to have to calm down," the officer told her in a calm, authoritative voice. "This man saved Dr. House…"

"No, he didn't," Cuddy argued, turning her attention to the policeman. "Officer, you can't let this man go anywhere; you have to arrest him. He did this, I _know_ he did this! He's been hurting House for months now…"

"Dr. House told us that he said that, before," the officer gently informed her, meeting her eyes with genuine sympathy. "And he also told us that it was a lie. His guilt over his false accusations against Dr. Wilson was the reason for his suicide attempt tonight…"

"No." Cuddy shook her head insistently, pulling away from the officer's restraining hand and backing up a step or two. Her gaze passed between Wilson and the officer with a disbelieving, bitter laugh as she continued, "No, House wouldn't just _try_ to kill himself. If House tried to kill himself…he'd be dead." Her eyes met Wilson's, piercing and full of righteous fury, her voice lowering to a near-whisper as she demanded, "You look at me…you look me in the eye and tell me that you think _House_…'got the dosage wrong'."

Wilson swallowed hard, a trapped expression in his eyes before he looked away, uncomfortable.

"How did you even get in?" Cuddy demanded.

"I have a key." Wilson's voice was patient, vaguely patronizing, a sad smile on his lips as he shook his head at her.

"He took your key back!" Cuddy reminded him.

Wilson sighed, looking down for a moment, glancing at the cop before he admitted softly, "I had another made, long before that – just in case. You know House. You never know when he might…need help. I thought it was best if I…"

"…if you had access to his home anytime you wanted? If there was literally _nowhere_ he could go to escape you?" Cuddy spat the words at him, her eyes narrowed as she advanced on him again.

The police officer moved between them, his hands held out warningly. "Ma'am," he said in a low, soothing voice that still carried a note of warning, "you're really going to have to calm down. Now, Dr. Wilson and Dr. House have both told me their stories of what happened here tonight – and those stories mesh. Dr. House says his injuries are self-inflicted, and he's the one who gave himself the injection, and Dr. Wilson just happened to find him in time to save his life. Now, we're going to accompany him to the hospital, and there's going to be a detailed report of his injuries, and if there's any evidence of wrong-doing, it will be dealt with. At this time we have no reason to arrest Dr. Wilson." He paused, giving her an apologetic look as he added reluctantly, "But…if you don't calm down…I might have to arrest _you_."

Cuddy stared at him for a long moment, struggling to control her emotions, before turning her eyes on Wilson. It was an effort, but she made no further move to attack him.

"You're not going to get away with this," she warned him, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "You're no criminal mastermind, Wilson. You're bound to have left some kind of evidence. I know what you did…and there _will_ be consequences."

Wilson did not respond, just met her eyes in a look that was openly sorrowful and sympathetic, as if he could not understand why she had lost it, why she was spouting such accusations at him – but beneath the gentle façade, Cuddy thought she detected a quiet triumph in his dark eyes.

_But he hasn't won…not yet…_

Cuddy climbed into the back of the ambulance after the paramedics who had just laid House down inside it, cutting off their initial protests by flashing her PPTH ID card and informing them curtly, "I'm his doctor."

House looked up at her through eyes that were still distant from the drugs, but grateful, and she felt fresh tears behind her eyes when he reached up weakly to grasp her hand, his trembling lips parted to speak, though he was still shaking too hard with cold to speak clearly.

"Shhh…It's going to be all right, House," she whispered, smiling bravely for his benefit, ignoring the tears as they streaked her face. "You're safe now. I won't let him hurt you again. It's going to be all right."


	20. Chapter 20

Cuddy held House's hand in hers the entire ride to the hospital

Cuddy held House's hand in hers the entire ride to the hospital.

It was cold as ice.

Even after they reached the hospital, it took nearly an hour under heating blankets to return House's body temperature to normal.

Even then – he did not stop shaking.

Foreman had House's toxicology report in Cuddy's hands less than thirty minutes after he was admitted – and the results were highly disturbing. The amounts of ketamine and sodium pentothal in his system were dangerously high – though nowhere near enough to _ensure_ death, and therefore not possibly the result of a suicide attempt. If Cuddy had harbored any doubts as to House's story—which she hadn't, given the nature of his previous injuries—the test results would have erased them from her mind.

_There is_ no way _House did this to himself. Wilson won't get away with this – I refuse to let him…_

As soon as he was stable, tucked under warm blankets with IV fluids flowing into his veins, Cuddy sent the well-meaning nurses and ER doctors – including an anxiously hovering Cameron – out of the room. She would stay with House, waiting out the withdrawal symptoms with him, as long as it took – and there was no need for anyone else to bear witness to his suffering.

She sat beside him, holding his hand as the remains of the drug worked its way slowly out of his body. She made no effort to control her tears; House wouldn't notice them – and he couldn't control _his_ emotions, either. He alternated between bouts of trembling in silent shock, staring into nothing…and heartrending sobs, pleading for forgiveness from someone who wasn't there, and wouldn't have listened if he was.

And _then_ – things got _bad_.

The hallucinations were an expected side effect of the ketamine, but Cuddy was still unprepared for the challenge they presented. Even weakened and injured as he was, House was still stronger than she was. In his panic, struggling against foes both remembered and imagined, he thrashed about in the bed, dislodging his IV several times, and knocking his damaged leg into the side of the bed once, hard enough for the pain to make him cry out in agony, before momentarily losing consciousness.

Cuddy had seen enough.

She didn't want to do it. Still, she knew that as much as he would hate her decision, he would hate the idea of having half a dozen nurses and orderlies observe his weakness more. Until the drugs wore off enough to allow him to control his actions, she knew that she had no choice.

She had to restrain him.

It was painful for her, watching House strain weakly against the soft but unyielding bonds on his wrists. He shook his head, his eyes tightly shut, whimpering quiet pleas under his breath.

"Don't…please…please let me go…please, don't…"

The terror in his faint, slurred voice tore at Cuddy's heart, demanding in outrage that she unfasten the restraints – but she knew, as painful as it was for both of them, that it was the only option she had. All she could do was to try to soothe him – to help him through it.

"Please," he moaned, his head thrashing back and forth, his entire body taut with his unconscious attempts to escape. "Please, don't…I'm sorry…"

Cuddy scooted her chair as close as she could to his bed, leaning across it to slide her left arm under his shoulders, the fingers of her right flexing slightly in the painfully tight grip of House's hand.

"Shhh," she murmured, leaning her cheek against the top of his head, heedless of the silent tears that streaked her face. "House, it's okay…it's all right…you just have to let me help you, okay? You just have to wait it out…"

She knew that in his drug-induced delirium, House likely did not understand her words – likely would never even remember them later – but she had to try, had to say _something_ to try to ease his fears. Her left hand ran lightly through his hair in a gesture she hoped would be comforting.

Despite her hopes, she was stunned when House turned gratefully toward her, burying his face against her shoulder. His hands jerked against the restraints, and he let out a soft whimper of frustration. Suddenly, Cuddy was strangely certain that if he could have, he would have returned her embrace, huddling closer to her and allowing her to hold him and comfort him like a child.

_Yeah…definitely still majorly drugged…this detox could take a while…_

Cuddy didn't mind waiting; she had no intention of leaving his side.

House's face nuzzled into the crook of her neck, and she felt as much as heard his quiet whimper against her skin. A simple word, spoken with depth of emotion and need Cuddy had never expected to hear in _House's_ voice, sent an icy jolt of shocked sorrow through her.

"_Mom_…"

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she instinctively held him tighter, brushing her lips against his forehead in an instinctive, soothing kiss. The idea that the proud, self-possessed diagnostician who refused to admit to the slightest weakness while in his right mind was now desperate for the comfort of his mother's touch was heartbreaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she helplessly held him, wishing she could offer him more than her inadequate embrace.

_Why didn't I think of it?_ she berated herself. _I should have thought… He usually has Wilson, and every other time – the shooting, the coma – Wilson's been enough for him… but this time, Wilson's the one who hurt him, and he needs someone here who loves him… someone he trusts… God, why didn't I think to call his family? _

Disentangling her hand from House's with an effort, Cuddy pressed the nurse call button. At the loss of contact, a thin, strangled cry caught in House's throat, his trembling fingers stretching, straining for the added comfort of her hand. Cuddy returned it as soon as she could, holding his hand and squeezing gently in reassurance.

"It's all right…I'm right here…"

The nurse who stepped into the room immediately froze, taken aback by the strange sight of the caustic, unpleasant Dr. House, in such close, affectionate contact with the hospital administrator. Irritated by the woman's hesitation, Cuddy impatiently nodded for her to come closer.

"Is any of Dr. House's team here tonight?" she asked, keeping her voice soft and mild for House's sake.

The nurse's voice was distracted, her gaze focused on House's trembling form, appearing far more fragile than she – or anyone else, for that matter – had ever seen him. "I…I think Dr. House must have given them the day off today. I haven't seen any of them all day…"

"No, not them," Cuddy clarified, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice, despite the fact that the nurse's mistake was admittedly a logical one. "His _old_ team. Dr. Foreman? Dr. Chase?"

"Well, Dr. Cameron was headed this way to check on him, but we just had a car accident brought in – two critically injured children and…"

"Not Dr. Cameron." Cuddy frowned. "I said Dr. Chase or Dr. Foreman."

If Wilson showed up, and Cameron was alone with House, they would _both_ be utterly at his mercy – and therefore in danger.

"I can page them," the nurse offered, nervous at Cuddy's obvious irritation. "Have them come here?"

"Yes, that would be good." Cuddy finally relented with a sigh and an approving nod. "Tell them to hurry."

Ten minutes later she was in her office, thumbing through her personnel files until she came to the one that bore House's name. She took it out, reaching for the information sheet and tracing downward with her fingertips until she found the line that read "Emergency Contact".

She was relieved to find the phone number she sought written on the line – and then slightly confused, when she noticed it was not written in the same handwriting as the rest of the information. Her eyes widened slightly, then welled with tears when she finally recognized the handwriting that didn't fit.

It was Wilson's.

House had left the emergency contact line empty – most likely to prevent anyone from knowing about any vulnerable situations such as the one he was currently in – and Wilson had come along behind him at some point, dutifully filling in the name and phone number of House's parents for him.

Cuddy's heart ached, thinking of a time when Wilson had cared more for House's life and well-being than House had himself.

Blinking the tears from her eyes, Cuddy picked up the phone and dialed the number, waiting anxiously through several rings. It was late, but not so late that they should be in bed – not yet.

After four rings, the line was picked up, and a soft, dignified female voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. House? This is Dr. Cuddy." She paused, drawing in a deep breath before forcing herself to go on. "I'm sorry to have to call you like this, but…you need to make arrangements to come here… Something's happened to…to your son."

Chase stared with shocked, disbelieving eyes at the trembling, writhing form of his one-time boss, looking so fragile and helpless in the hospital bed. Chase was not able to offer the level of comfort Cuddy had offered, but he did at least reach out to hold House's hand, wishing that there was more he could do.

House's distress was intensely distressing to _him_.

He had never seen House so vulnerable, shaking and whimpering pitifully as he fought weakly against the wrist restraints. What parts of his body were visible were covered in dark bruises; both his eyes were blackened, his jaw swollen, and his lip split. His mental and emotional state spoke of recent, intense trauma.

The nurse who had called him to House's room had said it was a suicide attempt.

Chase knew that to be false, even before Cuddy informed him that House had most certainly _not _tried to kill himself. So of course, he had immediately asked her what had _really_ happened.

Cuddy had been strangely evasive.

During a brief moment's hesitation, Chase had thought that she might be about to tell him what she knew – but then she had obviously decided against it, saying that he really didn't need to know. All he needed to know, she had informed him, was not to allow _anyone_ into the room while she was gone, and not to leave House's side for a moment.

She had made it quite clear that should he fail on either account, his job would be forfeit. The urgency Chase had heard in her voice, the grim wariness he saw in her eyes, only served to confirm his sense of certainty that this was no accident.

House had been deliberately, brutally attacked by someone – though who that someone was, he couldn't guess.

House was a man of few friends, and many enemies.

When Wilson showed up in the doorway to the room – Chase was actually relieved.

_Great…someone better equipped to deal with this than me…_

"Hey," Wilson said softly, a concerned frown creasing his brow as he entered the room, his troubled gaze falling on House's trembling form. "How is he?"

"I'm…not sure," Chase answered hesitantly. "I've only been here a few minutes. Cuddy was here, but she had to make a phone call, so she asked me to stay." He paused, an uncertain expression on his face. "She…explicitly told me not to let _anyone_ in while she was gone…so…maybe it'd be better if you…came back…"

Wilson drew his eyes reluctantly away from House, blinking at Chase for a moment in confusion, before his face broke into an incredulous smile, and he let out a disbelieving little laugh. The warmth in his dark eyes, the mild amusement mixed with his concern for his friend, was disarming and reassuring.

"Well…Chase…I'm his _best friend_," he remarked, in a vaguely patronizing voice, as if what he said should have been obvious, "I'm...pretty sure that 'anyone' doesn't include _me._"


	21. Chapter 21

"Something's happened to…to your son…"

"Something's happened to…to your son…"

A moment's tense, weighted silence passed as Cuddy waited for House's mother to respond.

At last she spoke in a breathless, terrified whisper. "What? Dr. Cuddy – what's happened to Greg?"

The dread in her voice told Cuddy that this type of call was not entirely surprising to Blythe House. Cuddy supposed it would have been impossible for the woman not to be at least somewhat aware of her son's self-destructive tendencies. Considering the numerous physical disasters House had experienced over the years, the poor woman had to live in fear of just such a call as the one Cuddy was currently delivering.

She kept her voice calm and even for Mrs. House's benefit as she explained rather vaguely, "He's going to be all right…but…but he's been…attacked. He's…stable, but…it's quite serious."

"What do you mean, attacked?" There was a note of panic in the frail, breathless voice. "Attacked by whom?"

Cuddy winced at the question. She had known that it would come up, of course, but she wasn't sure yet how to handle the situation. The last time House had been lucid, he had been claiming Wilson's innocence, and Cuddy was not yet sure how to go about proving Wilson guilty, when his victim would not back up her story.

The first thing she had to do was to get House better, so that she could talk to him, and accomplish the second thing – getting him to tell the truth about what Wilson had done.

In the meantime – she had no idea what to tell his mother.

"There's…a lot of details that are better discussed in person," Cuddy hedged cautiously. "I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. But…I think he needs you right now." Cuddy hesitated a moment before adding softly, "He's asking for you."

Blythe House needed to hear nothing more.

"We'll be on the next flight out. We should be there by morning."

"This is _House _we're talking about, Chase. Do you really think Cuddy would want to keep _me_ away? I'm his best friend." Wilson hesitated a few moments before adding with an almost apologetic shrug, "I'm his _only_ friend."

Wilson moved a few steps further into the room as he spoke, his voice soft and holding a faint note of amusement, despite the grave expression of concern in his dark eyes as he looked at the trembling, flailing form lying in the hospital bed.

_Except…wait…_

Chase frowned as he turned his eyes back toward House, who was no longer flailing at all. He had suddenly gone very still in the bed; he was still shaking, but he had stopped struggling against the restraints. His eyes were distant, unfocused, wide and staring into nothing, and he was shaking his head slightly.

And the change seemed to have occurred at the exact moment when Wilson spoke.

"Cuddy specifically said not to let _anyone_ but her in this room…"

"I think it's a given that she'd want me in here," Wilson insisted, edging nearer. "If it was anybody else, maybe not…but it's _House_…and he needs me, Chase. If Cuddy was here, she'd tell you it's fine…"

Chase might have allowed himself to be reassured by the gentle compassion in Wilson's voice, the familiar sincerity in his eyes as he looked at his friend in the bed – had he not been distracted at that moment by House's heart monitor.

House's heart rate began to steadily increase, though there were no other warning signs, nothing to indicate that he was in any immediate danger of crashing. His breathing was normal, if a bit rapid, but that was normal considering his heart rate. His body was taut and trembling in the bed, and all at once Chase recognized the strange reaction for what it was.

Sheer, unadulterated terror.

"She said 'anyone but me'. You know…I tend to think that if she'd meant 'anyone but me and _Wilson_'…that's what she'd have said." Chase turned toward House, alarmed as his heart rate continued to increase. "I really think you should go now. I don't think your presence is as soothing as you think it is at the moment."

Wilson's expression darkened, his tone betraying a flash of anger. "You're not suggesting that _this_…" He waved a hand in a vague gesture to indicate House's physical reaction. "…is because of _me_?"

"You're suggesting it's coincidence?" Chase countered, turning wary, incredulous eyes on the still-advancing oncologist, only a couple of feet from the bed now – and House's heart rate was still rising. Chase shook his head, his eyes narrowed with increasing suspicion. "Unh-uh. House doesn't believe in them."

"House isn't always right."

Wilson closed the remaining distance between the bed and himself, laying a gentle hand on House's arm, just above the wrist restraints. House visibly jerked at the touch, but was unable to pull away – and Chase noted the dangerously high readings on the monitor, as well as House's shallow, shaky breathing.

"Hey, buddy," Wilson said softly, a sympathetic smile on his face. "You really need to calm down, okay? You're just going to hurt yourself…"

House's response seemed to be the opposite of calming down. He shook his head harder, a ragged whimper torn from his throat as he tried in vain to pull away from Wilson's hand on his arm.

"Okay…you need to go," Chase stated, decisive at last as he wrapped a firm hand around Wilson's wrist to draw his hand away from House's arm.

Wilson refused to budge, looking up at Chase with a strange, cold smile. Chase's eyes widened in alarm at the dangerous glint he saw in Wilson's dark, unfathomable gaze. The mild-mannered oncologist's voice was very soft, disarming, as he asked in a tone of subtle challenge,

"You're going to make me?"

Cuddy sat there at her desk for a few moments after hanging up the phone, her head resting wearily in her hands. The conversation with Blythe House had taken quite a bit out of her emotionally – not that she had much left to take at the moment. She was feeling drained and overwhelmed and not sure that she had much left to give to House at the moment.

But it didn't matter; she would give it anyway.

She rose and left her office, striding quickly down the hall toward his room. When she turned the corner, Cuddy froze at the scene that met her eyes.

Chase was standing in the hall outside House's room – with Wilson.

The tension between the two men was palpable. Chase stood with his back to House's room, holding Wilson's arm, pushing Wilson back as he tried to get past Chase, back into the room. Wilson's free hand was clenched into a fist, his face twisted into an ugly mask of vindictive rage. Chase was leaning forward, speaking in a low, intent voice close to his face, and Cuddy got the impression that he was trying to keep the confrontation as private as possible in the public space of the hallway.

She also got the impression that at any moment, Chase was going to get punched in the face.

Again.

She hurried her pace, eyes narrowed and blazing with fury and indignation. Neither man was aware of her approach, their conversation obviously heated, though their voices were too quiet for her to make out the words. As she closed the distance between herself and the impending fistfight, Wilson tried again to shove Chase out of his way – and Chase shoved back, hard.

"I don't care _what_ you have to say, you're _not_ getting back in this room," he declared, a slight tremor to his voice, his jaw set stubbornly as he glared at Wilson.

Wilson staggered backward a step or two, staring in disbelief at the younger doctor. Then a slow, menacing smile stole over his face, and he straightened, coming back toward Chase with his fist raised. "Wanna bet?"

Chase's eyes widened in shock when he saw that Wilson actually intended to hit him, but he seemed too stunned to even think about preparing a retaliatory blow. He just stood there, staring blankly as Wilson advanced.

"This is Dr. Cuddy," Cuddy spoke into her cell phone, watching the scene, well aware that any attempt to physically stop Wilson would only succeed in getting her hurt as well as Chase. "I need security to Dr. House's room immediately…"

Wilson froze just short of landing the intended blow, whirling on his heel to face her. He glanced with alarm between Cuddy's eyes and the phone at her ear, startled, as if he couldn't quite believe that she was actually calling security on him. Satisfied that they were on their way, Cuddy flipped the phone closed, pocketing it as she met Wilson's eyes in an icy glare.

"You have some nerve," she stated, her voice dangerously low and warning, "showing up here after what you did."

"I _didn't do anything_!" Wilson insisted, a disbelieving laugh in his voice as he raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Cuddy, are you out of your mind? I would never hurt House…"

"House doesn't seem to believe that," Chase pointed out, tensing as Wilson turned back toward him in anger. Chase directed his words toward Cuddy as he explained, "Should have seen his heart rate the moment Dr. Wilson stepped into the room…"

"He was in House's room?" Cuddy was furious, though it wasn't exactly clear which of them she was furious with.

"I tried to stop him." Chase was immediately defensive. "I _did_ stop him. I made him leave the room, but…he wouldn't go…" He paused a moment, his concern for his own job fading slightly with the memory of House's panicked reaction. "House was…was terrified of him."

"This is ridiculous!" Wilson insisted, looking between them warily, as if they might be dangerously insane. "Have you both just _completely_ lost your minds? House is my _best friend_! There is no way I would do anything to hurt him! All I want is to walk into his room and make sure he's okay – let him know I'm here – and this _idiot_ practically attacks me at the door, and claims it's because _you_ told him not to let me in."

"And you're _surprised_?"

Her voice was soft, controlled – and dangerous. Cuddy crossed her arms over her chest as she moved to stand beside Chase, completely blocking Wilson's access to House's room.

"I _know_…what you _did_," she stated in a slow, emphatic tone, a tight, false smile on her lips. "And you have a better chance of your next marriage making it to the five year mark than you have of getting into this room." She paused, allowing the barb to sink in, taking a vindictive pleasure in the shocked, stung expression on Wilson's face before she went on, "And in case there was any doubt as to how exactly I meant that – there is _no_ chance whatsoever. Of _either_ actually happening."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, visibly struggling for control, his fists clenched at his sides. His dark eyes shot sparks of venomous resentment in Cuddy's direction, his jaw clenched as he fought to steady his voice before finally responding.

"I know what House told you," he began quietly. "But he admitted that it was a lie. I never touched him. It was just one of his lies – one of his games to try to get…I don't know, sympathy…or attention…because he felt like I still hadn't forgiven him for…for Amber."

He stopped, his eyes lowered to the floor, swallowing hard, and Cuddy reminded herself that, as convincing an act as it might be, it was still indeed an act. Wilson looked up at her, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

"But I have forgiven him. That doesn't mean things are going to be the same between us. It _does_ mean that I'm not going to beat the crap out of him every chance I get. House just can't handle the fact that things are different between us now, so he had to work up some crazy scheme – just like he always does – to try and get you, or me, or anybody he could, to feel sorry for him. And as self-destructive as he's always been, this time he ended up nearly killing himself in the process, and then nearly killing himself again, on purpose, out of guilt."

A glance at Chase revealed that he was torn, uncertain, partially convinced by the apparently sincere regret and sorrow in Wilson's voice. The younger man kept looking back and forth between Wilson and Cuddy, searching for some sign as to who was the one he should believe.

"You know as well as I do that House did not attempt suicide tonight," Cuddy stated, a challenge in her eyes. "And I'm going to prove it. And you're going to stay away from him." She hesitated just a fraction of a second before continuing in a confident, certain voice, "You're on leave as of this moment, Wilson – until the allegations against you can be either proven or disproven."

"What _allegations_?" Wilson sputtered, outraged. "There _are_ no allegations! House lied! He _says_ he lied! Just because you don't believe him…"

"The police said there would be an investigation. You are at the very least involved in that investigation…" Cuddy said, clearly pleased by the logic in which she had trapped him, "…if only by being the first one to find him." She paused, her voice lowering, her smile fading as she pointed out, "You could have done _anything_ to him in the time it took the paramedics to get there. You are, at the very least, a 'person of interest' in the investigation, and until it's proven just exactly what your role was in the entire thing, you are on paid suspension. And you are not to come on hospital grounds."

Wilson laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You actually think you can keep me away?" he sneered. "I have the right to be here, unless _House_ says I don't…"

"He's incapable of making that decision for himself right now, which leaves it up to his _doctor_ to make it for him…"

"Who's determined that he's incapable?" Wilson challenged, taking an angry step forward.

Something within her snapping, Cuddy stepped forward to meet him, eyes narrowed, as she shot back her reply. "His _doctor_."

Wilson's right fist twitched at his side, and Cuddy swallowed as she glanced down at it before meeting his eyes again. It was obvious that he wanted to strike her – but she would not back down. Wilson suppressed his rage with an effort, forcing a cold smile.

"That's convenient for you, isn't it, Cuddy?" he sneered. "Gives you all the power. Well, we'll see how long it lasts."

The sound of two approaching security guards drew their attention for a moment, and Wilson self-consciously took a step backward, letting out a heavy sigh, acknowledging defeat…if only for the moment.

"You have no legal grounds to suspend me – paid suspension or otherwise. And once I get word to your superiors about this…this biased, unjust treatment with absolutely no grounds for it…you'll be lucky to _mop the floors_ at this hospital!"

One of the security guards reached for his arm, and Wilson jerked away with a warning glare.

"I can see _myself_ out," he snapped.

As he started down the hall toward the exit, the security guard glanced uncertainly at Cuddy. She nodded her head, indicating for them to let him go. As long as he was leaving, there was no reason to prolong the encounter. Still, there were precautions she needed to take.

"Mr. Fischer," she addressed one of the guards quietly, "follow him. Be sure he actually leaves. And Mr. Duncan…you're officially posted right outside this door. No one but me…" She hesitated. "…and…Drs. Foreman and Chase…are to enter this room." She felt a momentary pang of guilt at the idea of excluding Dr. Cameron, but knew that House would not be happy with the idea of her seeing him so vulnerable.

The guard nodded as he left to get a chair, and Cuddy and Chase just stood there for a moment in silence, watching as Wilson turned the corner at the end of the hall.

"So," Chase began at last, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. "I'm…assuming I'm still employed here, then? Since I'm still on the list?"

"You don't have to work here to visit a patient." Cuddy gave him a sharp glance, a single brow raised.

Chase swallowed hard, eyes large and solemn…obviously unsure as to whether or not she was serious.

Cuddy relented with a rueful smile, adding "But you do. Work here. In spite of allowing the one person that my instructions were designed to _prevent_ getting to House, to get into his room. There's no way you could have known."

Chase nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. "Of course," he suggested in a voice that was cautiously mild and neutral, "next time you want to prevent one specific person from getting to a patient…it might be helpful to _name_ that one specific person."

Cuddy gave him a dark look, but acknowledged her own mistake. "Noted."

They were quiet for another moment, still watching the spot where Wilson had disappeared. After a moment, Chase spoke again, a pensive frown on his face, his head tilted thoughtfully.

"Does Wilson have…a twin? Possibly an _evil_ one?"

Cuddy couldn't suppress a slight smile, pretending to consider the suggestion. "He _does_ have a brother." Her smile faded as she sighed, "No twin, though."

Chase shrugged. "Worth a shot." He turned back toward House's room, nodding to Cuddy as he did. "Come on," he said, giving her a dubious look. "This is one story you're not getting away without telling."


	22. Chapter 22

Chase waited in silence as Cuddy hurried past him into House's room, swiftly making her way to the injured doctor's side and looking him over to be sure that he was all right

Chase waited in silence as Cuddy hurried past him into House's room, swiftly making her way to the injured doctor's side and looking him over to be sure that he was all right. She glanced at the monitor, frowning when she saw his elevated heart rate, before taking her seat beside him again, reaching out to take his hand.

"Did Wilson touch him?" she asked in a low voice, almost frightening in its intensity.

"No," Chase hurriedly answered, hesitating before he amended, "Well, barely. I… I stopped him before he could…"

Cuddy turned to glare at him, protective fury blazing in her eyes. Chase felt a chill go down his spine. Suddenly, he was very glad that he had never had the chance to go through with his resentful desires to turn House in to Tritter the year before. Hovering over House's vulnerable, broken form, Cuddy resembled a mother lioness defending her wounded cub – and Chase would not have risked tangling with her for the world.

Cuddy ran her fingers gently through House's hair, soothing him as he let out a strangled whimper, his eyes tightly shut, shaking his head rapidly in obvious terror. He was still under the effects of the drugs in his system, and had no way of knowing what was real, and what was just a part of the vivid hallucinations he had been experiencing since the withdrawal had started.

"Shhh…" Cuddy whispered gently, reaching to grasp his hand and squeeze it lightly. "It's all right, House…he's gone, and he's not coming back. You're all right…"

Gradually, as she continued to comfort him with her soft, measured words and gentle, soothing touch, House's heart rate and breathing began to return to normal. He didn't open his eyes, apparently unwilling to face the world around him just yet, though it was a long time before he finally fell into something resembling sleep. In his current state, Cuddy couldn't be sure if he was actually sleeping, or unconscious… or simply trapped in the silent torment of his own mind.

The entire time, Chase waited in a chair against the wall, until all of House's vital signs appeared to be right again.

"So…are you actually going to tell me what's going on here? Or…" Chase let his voice trail off, giving Cuddy an expectant look.

Cuddy finally straightened, smoothing the covers over House before turning to face the younger doctor. "Yes, I'm going to tell you. I made a mistake by keeping it to myself to begin with," she replied with a heavy sigh, solemnly meeting his gaze. "It's far past time this secret came out."

"So…all the accidents…all the unexplained injuries…the…the second coma?" Chase's voice was quiet, uncertain, as he glanced at Cuddy for confirmation.

She nodded once, her expression solemn.

"It was all Wilson. The whole time."

Cuddy nodded again, her thumb stroking gently across the back of House's hand.

"For…months, now."

"Yes," Cuddy whispered. "He's been…hiding it. You know when Wilson said that he forgave him? When they started being friends again?" She paused, meeting Chase's questioning eyes. "That's when it started."

"Shit…" Chase barely breathed the word as his horrified eyes fell on House. He was quiet a moment, thinking, before he looked back to Cuddy. "Why would he just…just _take_ it like that? He could've stopped Wilson; he's strong enough…"

"He wasn't, not when it started," Cuddy corrected softly, shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. "He was still recovering from the accident and the DBS. He could hardly have fought back then, at least…not with any success. And…after the first time…" She hesitated, struggling to control her voice before concluding hoarsely, "…Wilson never gave him a chance to recover."

A cold knot of horror and disgust coiled in Chase's chest. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "Why couldn't he just…I mean…why didn't he say anything? Tell someone? Do _something_ to stop it, before things got this far?"

_Because he thought he deserved it…he believed it would change…he thought he could help Wilson, if he just took enough of Wilson's pain onto his own shoulders…_

Cuddy just shook her head in silence, turning her head away from Chase to look at House through tear-filled eyes – unwilling to share with the younger man the answers running through her mind. Part of it House had told her in confidence, and the rest she had deduced on her own – but all of it was far too personal to share with someone she knew House didn't fully trust.

Also, there was something – _missing_ – some piece of the puzzle that she couldn't quite place. There was something worrying at the back of her mind, something that almost seemed to make sense, but not quite – something about House's behavior and words that meant…_something_, though she wasn't sure what.

_Care to be a little more vague about it, Lisa? _

The taunting voice of her thoughts sounded an awful lot like House's voice. Cuddy frowned, letting out a soft sigh – giving up on figuring it out, for the moment. The worries of the present moment were more than enough to occupy her.

"So what now?" Chase asked, his voice heavy with shock and uncertainty. "Call the police?"

Cuddy shook her head. "House lied to them – told them he did all this to himself. He told them he tried to kill himself tonight, and that's how the drugs got in his system."

Chase scoffed quietly. "That's physically impossible. The placement of some of those bruises…there's no way he could have given them to himself. And if House was going to kill himself, he'd take the drugs in dosages that were certain to be _lethal_, wouldn't he?"

"Exactly," Cuddy sighed.

"So we give our report to the police, and there's evidence of an assault, right?" Chase suggested. "It's evidence against Wilson…"

"No," Cuddy corrected him. "It's evidence, and it's evidence of an assault…but it's not evidence against Wilson."

Chase frowned, puzzled. "Why not? Wilson's no criminal genius. Surely he left a…a fingerprint, or…some sort of trace evidence?"

"So what if he did?" Cuddy's voice trembled slightly with anger and frustration. "He says he found House in his apartment, already in this condition. He tried to help him and called the paramedics. _Of course_ his fingerprints are all over the apartment, all over House – even on the needle he used to inject him." She paused, allowing the words to sink in before adding in a soft voice of defeat, "It's evidence that House was assaulted, and it's evidence that Wilson was in House's apartment…but it's not evidence that Wilson did it."

Chase seemed confused, not quite comprehending the problem. "Well, House can tell them…" Then he fell silent. "But he won't. Will he?"

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, gently squeezing House's hand, now limp and pliable in hers, as he slept peacefully at last. "I'm hoping that he will. I'm just waiting for him to detox so I can talk to him, try and get through to him." She fought to speak past the lump in her throat, choked by her own tears. "I don't understand it. I mean…last week he told me it was Wilson – told me everything. And now, somehow, Wilson's managed to…to brainwash him into keeping quiet again."

There was a long silence before Chase finally spoke, cautious and hesitant. "The more you tell me, the more this sounds like…like battered wife syndrome, Dr. Cuddy."

"That's what I told him."

"But…it's awfully quick, isn't it?" Chase asked doubtfully. "I mean…it usually takes years for something like that to develop to this point. Unless Wilson's at least _twice_ as brilliant as House – not to mention an utter and complete _sociopath_ – how in the world did he manage to get House so much under his control so quickly?"

Cuddy just shook her head. She had no answer for Chase's questions – and that tiny, needling _something_ in the back of her mind grew just a little bit stronger.

"We have nothing against Wilson," she stated in a low, grim tone, her eyes on House's sleeping form, "unless House is willing to tell the truth. Until then…there's nothing we can do. I'll just…wait with him, until he's…lucid again." She paused, looking up at Chase as she instructed quietly, "Don't say anything to anybody else about this – not yet. This is private. House has the right to keep it to himself as much as possible."

Chase nodded, accepting her decision as he rose to his feet. "I won't say a word. If you need me, my pager's on."

Cuddy silently returned his nod, looking back toward House as Chase quietly left the room.

The hours passed in silence, broken only by the quiet voices on the television she turned on for distraction. After a time, however, she just hit the mute button, finding that she didn't want a distraction, after all. She needed the silence to try to work out in her mind what it was about the situation that she was missing.

The silence did not help.

House slept fitfully for a few hours, plagued by hallucinations and nightmares. Some momentarily awakened him from sleep, causing him to whimper and cry out and mumble pleading words under his breath. Weakly, he fought the restraints at his wrists, twisting and struggling to escape.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, I'm sorry…"

Cuddy responded immediately, wrapping her arm around him and cradling him close to her as she stroked his damp, disheveled hair. "Shh, it's all right…it's all right…"

She was relieved when House seemed aware enough to lean into her embrace, although from House, such behavior was startlingin and of itself. At least it meant that he was not _completely_ lost in his own hallucinations. His quiet, desperate whimper against her neck sent a jolt straight through her, and she wrapped both arms around him, holding him close.

"I'm s-so sorry," he sobbed against her, and Cuddy's control over her own tears was gone.

"You didn't do anything wrong, House," she murmured into his ear, one hand rising to cup the back of his head as she rocked slowly. "You're all right…you didn't do anything you need to apologize for…"

"H-he won't believe it," House whispered, his voice broken and despairing. "He th-thinks I did it and he w-won't believe me…"

Cuddy couldn't speak, tears streaming from her eyes. All she could think about was House's suffering, and how pathetically powerless she was to do anything about it.

When House spoke again, his words shocked her out of her reverie.

"Please…please tell him I…d-didn't do it, Mom…please…"

It could have meant nothing.

It could have been nothing more than House's hallucinations mingling with his memories, leaving him confused and disoriented, talking about both at once. It could easily be explained away.

Somehow, Cuddy couldn't bring herself to explain it away.

_This is textbook abuse… This sounds like battered wife syndrome… It's awfully quick, isn't it? Usually takes years for something like that to develop to this point…_

Her heart pounded in her ears, nearly drowning out the memory of Chase's words. Was it possible that House was not referring to Wilson?

_He's a nearly fifty-year-old accomplished diagnostician…but he's talking like a frightened, desperate child…an _abused_ child…_

The pieces fell into place in her mind, with horrifying accuracy – and suddenly, Cuddy understood _exactly_ why it had been so easy for Wilson to brainwash House into accepting his abuse.

Most of the work had already been done for him.

_As difficult as it is to believe, at some point, House must have told Wilson about his childhood…and Wilson turned that confidence against him…betrayed him in the worst possible way…_

In that moment, Cuddy wished she'd done more than to simply kick Wilson out of the hospital.

Then she had another thought. She closed her eyes in dismay as she realized what she'd done.

_I called his parents…they're on their way here…and House's father is the last person he needs to see right now…_

It had been hours since she had spoken to Blythe House on the telephone; by this point, they were certainly on an airplane headed toward Princeton. It was too late to undo it, and Cuddy was absolutely certain by now – she had made a terrible mistake.


	23. Chapter 23

Throughout the night, each nightmare or hallucination that House experienced immediately awakened Cuddy from the light sleep that was all the rest she would allow herself

Throughout the night, each time House experienced a nightmare or hallucination, Cuddy immediately awakened from the light sleep that was all the rest her subconscious would allow her. After the disturbance Wilson had already caused, she trusted the guard to know better than to allow him into the room again. It was House's emotional discomfort that kept her on the verge of waking all night long.

The drug-induced nightmare visions caused him terrible torment – and Cuddy would not allow him to go through it alone.

She held his hand in hers, leaning awkwardly over the bed so that she was half in the chair, half resting on the mattress near his head as she slept. Although she was very uncomfortable, she didn't mind, because it meant that she was quicker to awaken every time that House needed her.

As the hours passed, House's hallucinations gradually ebbed away, much to Cuddy's relief.

Still, she found that true, restful sleep eluded her.

All she could think about was the tremendous mistake she had made in calling House's parents. She considered trying to call them, to see if she could get them to stay away, but knew that such an effort would be useless. She had suspicions – even if they were very logical suspicions – but no firm reason to give them why they should not see their son, now that she had already let them know how serious his condition was.

She found herself hoping that House would awaken, lucid and aware enough for her to confess her error to him, to at least give him some warning before his parents arrived; but House had barely slept throughout the night, plagued by his nightmares. Just now, he seemed to have fallen into a restful sleep. She couldn't bear to disturb him.

With any luck, his parents would arrive while he was sleeping, and she could find a way to get rid of his father before he awakened, if only for long enough to tell House that his parents were there.

She glanced at her watch through bleary eyes, vaguely surprised to see that it was already 7 a.m. She counted the hours since she had called Blythe House, mentally calculating what time she could expect the Houses to show up.

_Any minute now…_

Her mouth tightened in grim resignation, and she let out a heavy sigh as she looked down at House's sleeping form – finally utterly relaxed and at peace. She knew better than to think that she had seen the last of the after-effects of the ketamine. Hallucinations were common for days after taking the drug, but at least House seemed to be through the worst of it – for now, anyway.

_At least the guard's at the door. They won't get in before I know about it…_

Less than an hour later, she heard the muffled sounds of a confrontation just outside the door. Carefully, she disentangled her hand from House's, doing her best not to disturb him, and rose from her chair to draw back a single panel of the blinds and peek out into the hallway.

John and Blythe House stood in the hallway. The security guard stood between them and the door to House's room. Blythe House was quiet; although Cuddy could not quite make out the words, House's father seemed irate, most likely at the idea that the guard had questioned him at all before allowing him into his son's room.

_Yeah…here less than a minute and he's already getting angry and causing a scene… Wonder why I never suspected before?_

Cuddy quickly walked to the door, slipping out as swiftly as possible and shutting it quietly behind her, to shut out the sounds of the argument.

"…my _son_, you idiot. You think your job is to keep _me_ out? Why don't you focus on looking out for the creep who did this to him in the first place, instead of…"

Colonel House's voice trailed off, and all three turned to face Cuddy as soon as she appeared.

"Dr. Cuddy," House's father sounded relieved, turning a disgusted look toward the guard as he explained, "This _incompetent_ thinks he's supposed to keep Greg's parents away from him – never mind the fact that you called us here to begin with. Will you tell him it's all right to let us in?"

"Please, Dr. Cuddy," Blythe spoke up at last, her voice quiet and intent as she met Cuddy's eyes. "I want to see my son."

"Mr. and Mrs. House," Cuddy greeted them with a cool nod, barely managing to restrain her rising anger, unmoved even by the anxious look in the eyes of House's mother. "Come inside and we'll talk. I'll ask that you keep your voices down, though. Your son is resting now, and he's had a very difficult night."

John looked slightly irritated at being given orders by her, but he nodded grimly, and the two of them followed Cuddy past the guard into House's room.

When House's mother saw his bruised, battered appearance, she let out a soft cry, stifled by the hand that flew to her mouth. She shook her head in denial, eyes wide and shocked, as she moved toward the bed.

"Don't wake him," Cuddy ordered, more sharply than she had intended.

"I…I won't." Blythe slowly sat down in the chair where Cuddy had spent the night, reaching out to lay her hand on House's in a feather-light touch. She looked up at Cuddy, eyes troubled and searching. "What happened?"

"Yes, you _were_ rather vague on the phone." Annoyance and disapproval were still clear in John's voice. "What exactly did you mean by 'attacked'?"

Cuddy's voice was coolly professional, her eyes locked onto those of Mr. House as she explained, "He was found in his apartment. He'd been badly beaten and forcibly injected with a dangerous combination of drugs. They found him shivering in a bathtub full of freezing cold water…"

Her voice trailed off when she saw House's father blanch, a slight flinch betraying his emotional reaction to her words – confirming some of her suspicions, as well as adding new ones. Col. House's reaction to the reference to the freezing cold bath was not lost on her, serving to enlighten her as to just why Wilson might have chosen that particular method of torment.

"The police called it attempted suicide…because…Greg _said_ it was a suicide attempt…but I don't believe that. Not for a second." Cuddy's sharp eyes searched the man's face, watching for a telltale sign of the guilt she suspected.

"Why would he do something like that to himself?" John House whispered, shaking his head, looking away from her uncomfortably.

Cuddy's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching with repressed outrage. "He didn't. It was done _to_ him. So a better question would be…" She paused, her voice lowering, her head tilting slightly to the side as she regarded the older man with cool speculation, "…who would do a thing like that to him?"

A moment's tense silence followed her question, as John's eyes shot up to Cuddy's again, startled, searching. She could tell that he was wondering how much she knew about his history with his son. She held his gaze intently, her own knowing and accusing, until he finally looked away again, clearing his throat.

"So…you don't know who did this, then."

"I didn't say that," Cuddy replied without hesitation. "As it turns out, this kind of abuse has been going on for months now. He's been systematically beaten and terrorized. He kept it a secret until just a few days ago, when he told me. Now, after just one more encounter with this person – he's been convinced to keep it a secret again."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, glancing between the stunned expression on Blythe's face, and the sick, guilty expression on the face of John House.

"Makes me wonder when he got so good at keeping secrets."

Col. House swallowed hard, visibly stricken by her words, as his anguished gaze fell on his son. "Abused?" he echoed, shaking his head in bewilderment. "I didn't even know he was…was in a relationship…and…and how would a…a _girlfriend_, or something…"

"Not a girlfriend. It was someone he considered a friend," Cuddy clarified softly. "A friend who thought he had a reason to hold a grudge, and took it out on him over the past few months."

"Why would he just…just _take_ it?" Col. House's voice was a whisper, his eyes locked onto House.

"I don't know," Cuddy replied, a sharp edge of accusation to her voice. "Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

The words crossed the line between innuendo that could be ignored, and almost-open accusation. John House glared at her, defensive. "What exactly are you suggesting, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I'm _suggesting_ that a fifty-year-old doctor with impenetrable defenses doesn't just _let_ himself be abused – not unless someone's already _prepared_ him to be abused." Cuddy's blue eyes blazed with fury as she unconsciously took a step toward the much larger man. "And I just can't help but wonder…who that someone might be."

"You've got a lot of nerve." Mr. House's voice was low, trembling with anger. "You don't know a thing about my family, and these accusations are ridiculous. You're nothing to this family – nothing to my _son _– and you've got no right…"

"I'm his doctor, and I'm his friend, and I'm not going to let him be placed in danger while he's under my charge," Cuddy countered, indignation pushing her an additional step toward House's father. She glared up at him defiantly, utterly unafraid. "He's unable to make these decisions for himself right now, and I'm his doctor, so I'll decide what's best for him. And what's best for him is _not_ to be in the presence of a man who made it possible for him to be hurt like this."

"How _dare_ you…I _love_ my son…"

"Get out," said Cuddy, disgusted. "When he's awake, _if _he asks for you, you can see him. Until then – you need to get out of this room. Now."

"_You can't keep me from my son_!"

John House's voice rose in frustrated anger – and House's heart monitor began to beep faster. Cuddy's eyes darted toward it before focusing again on House's father.

"Yeah," she stated flatly. "Your presence is obviously _so_ good for him." She paused, her voice lowering as she repeated, "Get out. Or I'll have security _get_ you out."

Col. House looked past Cuddy to his wife in helpless outrage. "Do you _believe _this?" he snapped, his voice still elevated and furious. "This is ridiculous! She can't just _do_ this…"

Throughout the entire confrontation between Cuddy and her husband, Blythe House had not moved from her chair beside her son. Her eyes had drifted back and forth between the argument and her son, as if she _was_ bothered by Cuddy's attack on her husband – but not enough to leave Greg's side. Her eyes darted back to her son's face, now frowning in sleep. His hand twitched under hers, his heart rate increasing yet again. She looked back up at her husband, her eyes large and solemn, her face streaked with tears.

"Maybe she's right, John," she whispered. "Maybe we'd better go."

"No, _you _stay," Cuddy corrected sharply. "He asked for you. You're the reason I called in the first place. _He_ needs to go, until your son says otherwise." When John House made no move toward the door, Cuddy added, "I'm going to count to count to three, and then I'm going to call security."

Col. House's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Cuddy could not help but compare the gesture to the one she had seen Wilson display just the night before. She held her ground, not looking away, despite the man's attempts to intimidate her.

"_One_…"

John swore furiously, his hands flexing at his sides, before he turned and stalked toward the door. He stopped in the doorway, turning back to address Cuddy one last time. "Tell me who did this," he ordered.

Cuddy considered for a moment, giving him an appraising look. Her voice softened slightly, reluctantly. "I don't think that's a good idea right now."

John House glared at her, shaking his head in disgust, before turning his attention to his wife.

"Find me when he wakes up."

Blythe House nodded, her free hand rising to wipe the tears from her face as she returned her gaze to her son. Once the door shut behind her husband, she looked up at Cuddy, an imploring expression on her face.

"I'm…sorry for my husband," she said softly. "He…he's used to having things…his way. He's not used to being given orders, and…and no matter what you believe about him, he _does_ love Greg. He might not have always been a perfect parent…"

"Neither were you," Cuddy cut her off in a quiet, sharp-edged voice.

Blythe stared up at her, startled by the accusation.

"The drugs he was given cause severe hallucinations. He suffered with them all night," Cuddy explained calmly. "Some of them were memories."

Blythe looked away, suddenly understanding where Cuddy had gotten her suspicions.

"He was asking you to defend him, to his father," Cuddy persisted, relentless, feeling no pity for the tearful woman at House's side. She was quiet a moment, a bitter smile crossing her lips as she guessed, "You didn't…did you?"

"You…weren't there," Blythe House insisted in a whisper. "There's no way you could understand…"

"I don't need to hear it," Cuddy interrupted. "You're only here because he asked for you. If it were up to me, you wouldn't be able to come near him, either. But…he wants you, for some reason. So here you are."

Blythe was silent, having no answer for the harsh words.

Cuddy's voice grew softer, though it was still cool. Her sympathies lay with House, not with the woman who had been aware of and allowed his childhood abuse.

"Maybe this time…you'll do a better job of standing up for your son."

John House stormed away from his son's room, seething with fury over the encounter he had just had with the impossible woman who refused to let him stay with his own son. He had every right to be at his son's side.

As he stalked down the hall, his thoughts began to turn toward the man who had hurt Greg, and he wondered at his identity. Dr. Cuddy had been rather vague about that particular detail – most likely trying to prevent the sort of thing John was imagining doing right now.

_I was no perfect parent…but_ nobody's _got the right to touch my boy_…nobody…

He was nearly to the cafeteria when he became aware of a set of hurried footsteps following him, and spun around to face the young man behind him. He was a doctor, wearing one of the white lab coats that Greg seemed to despise so much, and he stopped short when John abruptly turned toward him.

"I…I'm sorry," he stammered, clearly awkward, his voice carrying a strong Australian accent. "I just…I saw you, leaving Dr. House's room… You're his father?"

"Yes." John nodded, defensive as he gave the young doctor an appraising look. "What do you want?"

"I just…I couldn't help but overhear, as you were walking out…" The young man hesitated, taking a deep breath before he continued, "The man who attacked your son – I can tell you who he is."


	24. Chapter 24

Cuddy stayed in the room with House and his mother for the next couple of hours, while he continued to sleep peacefully

Cuddy stayed in the room with House and his mother for the next couple of hours, while he continued to sleep peacefully. It was awkward, especially following Cuddy's blunt words to Blythe House; but Cuddy intended to be at House's side when he woke up, to make sure he understood what had happened while he was unconscious. She sat on the sofaacross the room, closing her eyes occasionally, but not really sleeping, until House finally awakened around eleven.

He stirred restlessly, letting out a quiet moan before his eyes sleepily blinked open. At first he looked a bit dazed, staring blankly up at his mother. Gradually, his eyes widened, a puzzled expression on his face as he glanced down at the soft hand that clasped his, and then the restraints that bound him to the bed.

"Mom?" he whispered, meeting her eyes again, confused. "What… what are you…?" He stopped, a grimace of pain twisting his features as he rested his head on the pillows again and closed his eyes. "What happened?" he groaned. "I can't… can't remember… "

"It's all right, sweetheart," Blythe murmured, tenderness in her voice as she raised a hand to gently smooth House's forehead and hair. "You've had a rough time of it, but you're all right…"

Cuddy watched the tension visibly fade from House's face at the touch of his mother's hand. Reluctantly, she had to admit that maybe calling House's parents had been a good decision, after all – at least, as long as Cuddy could keep John House away from his son a while longer. As little as she thought of the woman and her failure to protect her son, Cuddy had to acknowledge the almost magical quality of a mother's touch for soothing physical or emotional pain.

"House," she said softly, drawing his attention as she approached from the side of the room. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"Sore. Irritated. Confused. What the hell happened?" House muttered without raising his head or opening his eyes. "And why am I tied to the bed?" He opened his mouth to say something else, and then glanced up at his mother in alarm, swiftly closing his mouth again.

Cuddy suppressed a smile, only able to imagine what sort of lewd comment he had just barely held back in front of his mother. Deciding that she might be able to use Blythe's presence to her advantage in this situation, Cuddy steeled herself for the impending confrontation.

"That's what we usually do in cases of _attempted suicide_."

House shot an anxious look in his mother's direction before glaring at Cuddy. "This isn't… I mean… I didn't… " He hesitated, letting out a sigh of frustration, realizing that he was trapped. "I don't want to have this conversation right now," he muttered petulantly, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

"Well, you haven't got a choice," Cuddy persisted. "This is important, House, and I need to know what… "

"My head hurts," House whined, turning large, pleading eyes in his mother's direction, leaning his head wearily on the pillow. "I can't talk right now. You'll have to come back later."

Cuddy watched in exasperation as Blythe House put her arms around House, drawing his head to her chest and effectively shielding him from having to face Cuddy – utterly unaware of how her son was using her to avoid an uncomfortable conversation.

However, faced with the sight of House in his mother's arms at last, receiving the kind of comfort he had needed for – well, probably as long as she'd known him – Cuddy could not bring herself to take it from him… not yet.

She moved closer to the bed, resting a hand on House's shoulder for a moment. He tensed at her touch, though she could not see his face, and she couldn't suppress a slight twinge of jealousy, remembering how easily he had accepted her touch the night before. Her expression softened as she found herself wondering if the reaction was a sign of PTSD, following his nightmare experiences of the day before. He wasn't looking at her; it was quite possible that his mind was telling him it was someone else entirely who was touching him.

"I'll be back in an hour," she informed him in a voice that was gentle but unyielding. As much as she wanted to be compassionate with him, she could not afford to let this go. "And then we _will_ talk about this."

House did not respond. Blythe gave her an indignant look, protectively pulling her son closer, as if to shield him from Cuddy's persistence. Without another word, Cuddy walked out the door and headed toward her office, to spend an hour working on something _not_ related to House and his situation.

"I don't understand." John House sat at a table in the cafeteria, across from the young, blond doctor who had stopped him in the hallway. He shook his head, frowning in confusion. "I thought James Wilson was Greg's friend."

"He was," Chase sighed. "It's… a long story. Basically, someone Wilson loved ended up dead. It… wasn't exactly House's fault, but… well, he was indirectly involved, and… Wilson blames him for what happened."

"So this is all about revenge, then." John's mouth tightened into an angry line, his jaw clenched as he rose to his feet. "Stupid boy. Never could keep himself out of trouble for long. Anytime a good thing happens his way, he just can't seem to hang on to it…"

"Col. House," Chase interrupted, standing with him and reaching out a tentative hand to stop the older man. "With all due respect… this isn't really your son's fault. You're blaming the wrong person."

"I'm not blaming him," John snapped, irritated. "He just always seems to find a way to take a good thing and turn it to crap."

"He's not the one that turned it to crap!" Chase insisted, frustrated. "Wilson's the one that started this whole thing! Wilson put him in a bloody coma, for God's sake!"

Col. House looked up at the younger man sharply, surprised by that revelation. "When was _this_?" he demanded in a quiet, dangerous voice.

"Months ago." Chase's tone softened, and he sighed sadly. "It was right after the bus crash. House nearly died trying to save Wilson's girlfriend. Went into a coma. Then, right after he got home… Wilson beat the crap out of him and put him into a second coma."

John's expression darkened as he looked past Chase, his brow furrowing as his mind called up vivid images of his son, already recovering from terrible injuries, only to be beaten and abused while he was helpless, by a man he had considered a friend. The countless bruises and scars that now covered his body filled the older man's mind, and his eyes glittered with rage. "No," he agreed in a quietly dangerous voice "Ultimately, Greg's not the one responsible for this."

He looked up at Chase again, purposefully, his eyes intent and, in that moment, very much like those of his son. "Wilson here?"

"No. Dr. Cuddy kicked him out."

"Can you tell me where he lives?"

Chase's mouth tightened into a sly smile. "No," he replied slowly. "Can't tell you. But I can take you there."

John House frowned at the suggestion. "Don't need any help handling Wilson. He was always a little on the soft side…"

"Not anymore, obviously," Chase pointed out. "And… wouldn't you rather have a witness? Just in case? It'd be a shame if you were the one to end up in jail, after what Wilson has been doing to your son."

After a moment's consideration, John nodded. "You follow my lead, though, and stay out of my way."

"Yes, sir," Chase agreed, not really sure why he automatically fell back on proprieties he hadn't used in years. His smile became a satisfied smirk as he nodded toward the exit. "I'll drive."

Cuddy had barely walked out the door when Blythe House unfastened the restraints that bound him to the bed. "This is just unnecessary," she muttered in quiet indignation. "You're no danger to anyone. It's just ridiculous. Ridiculous."

House was quiet, subdued, as she freed him, then took his hands gently in her own. His emotions were dangerously on edge, partially from the remnants of the drugs in his system, and partially from the unexpected stimulus of his mother's affection. When she put her arms around him and shifted her chair nearer to the bed, holding him close in her arms, he allowed it, resting his head on her shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

For a long time they were quiet, simply engaged in a quiet exchange of comfort and suffering, trading it back and forth in a language as old as time, surpassing the boundaries of words.

But Blythe House had questions that required words to be answered, and after a while, she could not help but voice them.

"Greg… sweetheart… How did this happen?" Blythe's voice was gentle, aching with longing to hide him from his suffering.

It almost brought House to tears.

"Mom… it's no big deal, really," he insisted as he sat up awkwardly, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. He didn't know how to avoid his mother's built-in lie detector, without deviating from the story Wilson had told him to stick to. "It was… an accident, really. I didn't really mean to… to hurt myself, I just…"

"Dr. Cuddy says _you _didn't hurt yourself," Blythe interrupted with a worried frown. "She says you were attacked. Says someone's been hurting you for months."

Openly confronted with the truth, House found that he had no choice but to face the lie detector head on.

_I'll kill you, Cuddy…_

"Mom, seriously… does that sound like something I'd put up with?" he asked her, giving her a look of patient affection. "How could somebody get away with something like that for _months_?"

"Well…" Blythe hesitated, her voice trembling, her eyes focused on her hand clasped around the hand of her son. "… if someone was… intent on keeping it secret… If… If you just kept quiet about it… secrets can be kept for… for much longer… and… and a lot of damage can be done."

House was stunned. In forty years, it was as close as his mother had come to acknowledging what had gone on between him and his father during his childhood… and the fact that she had known about it. As a young man, he had often secretly resented her for not doing anything to stop his suffering, and in time he had come to almost convince himself that she hadn't even known about it.

Surely, had she known, she would have done something to help him – right?

Now, however, House could not miss the regret in her voice – and the resentment and anger vanished, swallowed up in a need to comfort and reassure her. He squeezed her hand gently.

"Mom," he softly responded, "it wasn't like that. It was… a different time. There was nothing you could have…"

"That's not true," Blythe interrupted, a quiet anguish in her voice, tears streaking her face. "I was the only one who could have done anything. She said I – I should have protected you, and – and she's right. I'm sorry, Greg. I'm so sorry…"

House was speechless, staring at her in disbelief. He had never expected to hear such words from his mother, had never expected the ugly truths of his childhood to be acknowledged by either of his parents. He had often imagined it, often fantasized about the things he'd say to them, if he dared risk the resulting explosion from such confessions.

In the end, it always came down to two things that kept him silent – that lingering fear of his father's rage… and his desire to spare his mother the hurt of his bitterness and resentment. As an adult, he was aware of her weaknesses, aware that she had failed him in some ways – but he was also aware that she loved him – completely, absolutely – and had conducted herself as women during that time were taught that they were supposed to conduct themselves.

It wasn't his mother's fault, and the last thing he wanted was for her to suffer because of his father's failures.

Apparently – Cuddy hadn't taken into consideration what he wanted.

Cuddy didn't get much done during the hour she spent in her office. She kept glancing out into the lobby, expecting to see Wilson attempting to make it past her to House's room again, though she knew better than to think he would be foolish enough to try it again – at least, no so soon.

Still, her mind and heart were in the hospital room around the corner, and nowhere near the mindless paperwork she was trying to wade through. Finally, after giving House and his mother a little more than forty-five minutes, Cuddy decided she had waited long enough, and headed back to his room.

"How are we doing in here?" she asked, her tone friendly and professional.

She walked in to see House sitting up in the bed, the restraints at his wrists unfastened, both of his hands clasped gently in his mother's hands. She had expected as much, and didn't mind about the restraints, as House seemed to be through the worst of the hallucinations.

When she saw the murderous expression in his eyes when he looked at her, however, Cuddy immediately rethought that opinion.

"Mom?" House said in a gentle, warm voice that was in utter contrast to the cold fury in his eyes, that piercing gaze that never left Cuddy's face as he spoke. "Can you give me a few minutes, please? I need to discuss something with my doctor."

"Of course, Greg." Blythe nodded, patting his hand gently as she rose to her feet and headed for the door, though Cuddy could see the curiosity and concern in her eyes. "I'll be in the waiting room. Just let me know when you're finished."

House nodded, giving her a rare, affectionate smile.

No sooner had the door closed behind her, than that look shifted into a furious glare of menace. House's voice was low, dangerous, as he turned his full attention on Cuddy.

"You manipulative, interfering bitch," he snarled. "Why couldn't you just mind your own business?"


	25. Chapter 25

Cuddy blinked, startled by House's furious outburst

Cuddy blinked, startled by House's furious outburst. His fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing with fury, his jaw set in stubborn anger.

"You're… kidding, right?" she replied at last, her voice flat, a single brow quirked upward in challenge. "Because if by manipulative and interfering you mean saving your life, well, that's just something you're going to have to live with. If I'd minded my own business, you might be dead right now!"

"No, I wouldn't!" House snapped back in disgust. "It was Wilson who called the ambulance, Wilson who got help last night. You didn't do anything but show up and get in the way!"

Cuddy flinched, hurt. "Yeah. And your life wouldn't have been in danger to begin with if not for him! He could have killed you last night, instead of playing whatever stupid mind game he's decided to play, and if I hadn't come by to check on you, and found out what happened, I wouldn't have been able to keep him away from you _last night_, when he came in here, probably to _kill_ you!"

"He wouldn't have killed me," House's tone was dismissive. "What's the point of all of this if he was just going to kill me?"

"The point of all what, House?" Cuddy stepped closer to him, seizing on this minor slip. "I thought it was a suicide attempt."

House glanced pointedly around the room before returning his gaze to hers. "I don't see anyone in here worth convincing, do you? And while you were gone I highly doubt that you managed to put on a wire to secretly record this conversation. Though, that would have been brilliant…"

"Damn," Cuddy muttered, snapping her fingers in an exaggeratedly frustrated gesture. "That would have been a good idea."

House didn't crack a smile.

"This isn't about Wilson," he informed her quietly, his voice trembling with rage. "That isn't your business, either, and you had no right to tell my mother anything about what's going on between Wilson and me." He paused, his voice lowering as he added, "But this is about you running your mouth to my mother about things you know nothing about."

"House…" Cuddy's voice softened with sympathy. "…last night… you were kind of out of it. You said… you said some things, and… it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Your father…"

"It's none of your business."

"If not for your father, Wilson would never have been able to take things this far…"

"You don't know a damn thing about it!" House pounded his fist down on the railing of the hospital bed. "Guesses! That's all you've got! You don't know anything about my childhood, and you don't know anything about my _mother_, and you've got no right to try to criticize her for things she couldn't do anything about!"

"What things, House?" Cuddy's voice was soft, leading, latching onto the accidental cues he gave away in his anger. "House… what things couldn't she do anything about? I thought nothing happened."

House shook his head slowly, swallowing hard as he glared at her, his eyes guarded and defensive. "This is none of your business. You shouldn't have called them. You shouldn't have told them _anything_ about Wilson. And you damn sure shouldn't have told my mother that she was a… a _failure_."

"I didn't," Cuddy objected quietly. "I didn't tell them it was Wilson. All they know is that… someone hurt you. Someone's _been_ hurting you." At House's disgusted roll of his eyes, she explained. "The police report calls it an attempted suicide. That's what the nurses have been saying. Did you really want your parents to believe that's what it was?"

No, House didn't want that, but he was stuck between the truth Cuddy already knew, and the lies Wilson demanded that he try to pass off as truth. He looked away, swallowing hard, refusing to respond.

"House…" Cuddy cautiously sat down in the chair beside his bed, resting her hand on the railing a few inches from his, afraid to touch him. "…why do you want _anyone _to believe that's what it was? Why would you go along with this? We both know Wilson did it. Why would you want to let him get away with it?"

House turned his head further away, but she could see his breath quickening, saw the emotions he struggled to repress.

"House," she whispered, her fingers edging along the railing to brush tentatively against his. "Please…talk to me. You were ready to stop him, House. You were ready to stand up to him. And suddenly, you're going along with this crazy story he's come up with?"

"Yeah, 'cause standing up to him worked out so well for me, didn't it?" He waved a hand in a vague gesture indicating the hospital room, the entire situation. "That's what led to _this_."

"But if you'd tell the truth, House," Cuddy insisted, urgency in her voice, "there's evidence this time! We can get him… help. We can get him into some kind of therapy. If you just go along with his story, nothing's going to change. Not until one of you ends up dead." She paused, swallowing back her own tears, keeping her voice even and calm as she added, "Easy odds on which one of you that would probably be."

House was silent again, stubborn and sullen.

"House… you don't have to go along with him on this. He can't come near you right now. I've got your room guarded, and he's not allowed in the hospital at all. And if you tell the police what really happened, that can be made permanent, House. You don't have to put up with this anymore. You _don't have_ to go along with him."

House was silent for a long moment, though he slowly turned his face back toward her, and Cuddy sensed that he was working up the courage to speak.

"I… I was confused," he admitted at last, his voice barely over a whisper. "The.. the drugs. I didn't… really know what was going on. He… he told me to say… all of it. That I lied. That I tried to kill myself. And… and the state I was in, I… couldn't do anything else, really."

"I know." Cuddy's voice was gentle, understanding, and the vulnerability in his eyes made her feel that it was all right to place her hand on his. "I know you really couldn't help it that night, House. You had no other choice. He had you drugged and… and brainwashed, and there was nothing else you could have done. But… but _now_…" She hesitated, weighing her words carefully. "…_now_, you _do_ have a choice, House. You don't have to keep up the lies _now_."

House was quiet again for a long time, blinking rapidly, and Cuddy was startled when she saw a single tear trail down his cheek. He angrily swiped at it with his free hand, rolling his eyes at his own weakness before ruefully meeting her eyes.

When he finally spoke again, his words were soft, aching with a bewildered sense of loss.

"It's Wilson, Cuddy. It's _Wilson_." He shook his head helplessly, drawing in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. "I… don't want him to go to prison, or… I can't just… _turn him in_."

Cuddy's voice was stern, certain, as she replied, "House. He is not the man who was your best friend, not anymore. He's changed, and he's changed so much that if he continues down this path – if you choose this really, _really_ awful time to be all noble and self-sacrificing and _let_ him continue until he kills you – do you think that'll satisfy him? Do you think it'll end there? He _needs help_, House. Wilson's not himself right now, and if he's ever going to be the Wilson we both love again… he has to be stopped."

"He might not still be my friend, Cuddy," House conceded, the conflict clear in his voice, "but I'm still his."

"Are you?" House looked up sharply to find the challenge in Cuddy's tone mirrored on her face. "Because if you are… it's time to prove it. You can save him, House. If you're really his friend – you will. You'll save him from himself."

Standing outside the door to Amber's apartment, now inhabited solely by Wilson, Chase began to have doubts about his impulse decision to bring Colonel House there. The quiet rage in the older man's eyes told him that things were likely to get ugly – something he should have considered more carefully before driving him to Wilson's address.

At the moment, it had seemed like the thing to do.

According to Cuddy, House was unwilling to talk to the authorities about Wilson, unwilling to do anything to defend himself from his former friend. Chase felt an inexplicable protective anger at the idea of Wilson attacking House without mercy, while the older man simply took the abuse without fighting back. The thought of someone else stepping in, coming to his defense, had been very appealing back at the hospital.

Now, however – Chase wasn't quite so sure.

_What if Wilson decides to call the cops? What if they don't believe our story? What if Wilson has a gun, or…?_

Col. House rapped loudly on Wilson's front door.

_None of that matters. Too late to turn back now…_

Wilson didn't answer immediately, and despite the fact that his car was parked outside, Chase felt a moment's irrational hope that perhaps he was not home. Col. House knocked again, louder, and Chase waited for his hopes to be either confirmed or denied.

After a few moments the door swung open, and Wilson stood in the doorway. He gave Chase a confused frown before focusing on the other man. As soon as he recognized House's father, Wilson's eyes widened with alarm. Before he could close the door in their faces and retreat, however, John House pushed him back out of the doorway and made his way into the apartment.

Chase hurriedly followed him, glancing anxiously around outside for a moment to be sure no one had observed them before closing and locking the door. By the time he turned around to face the other two, John House already had Wilson by the collar, pinned up against the wall beside the door.

"Are you crazy?" Wilson hissed, his voice shaky and higher than usual. "What's the matter with you?"

John House was not buying Wilson's innocent act. "What did you do to my son?" he growled.

"Nothing!" Wilson sputtered. "He tried to kill himself, and I saved his life! Or didn't he tell you that part?"

"Yeah. That's why he's terrified of you, isn't it?" Chase put in, and John glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "Should've seen him when Wilson walked in earlier," Chase clarified for John's benefit. "Heart rate through the roof, desperate to get away. He's scared to death of Wilson."

The words were like gasoline on the flames of Col. House's anger. He pulled Wilson away from the wall, slamming him back again with enough force to knock Wilson's head painfully into the wall.

"What did you _do_ to him?" he demanded again. "Drugging him, beating him 'til he can hardly stand… What gives you the right…?"

"I didn't do any of that!" Wilson insisted, trying to twist out of the older man's grip. "This is ridiculous. House is my _friend_! Why would I hurt him?"

"That's what I'd like to know," John countered. "Dr. Chase here told me about what happened. Sounds like an accident, pure and simple, to me. What right do you think you have to take it out on my son?"

"An _accident_?" Wilson echoed in disbelieving outrage, his voice trembling with fury, his protestations of innocence disappearing in an instant. "How can you say it was just an accident? If it hadn't been for House, Amber would still be alive! If I _did_ do anything to him, it was no more than he deserved!"

John drew back his fist, plunging it into Wilson's face and silencing his accusations. "He deserved to get beaten to a pulp – more than once? He deserved to get forced into a tub of freezing water, intimidated into lying to the authorities to protect the man who attacked him? He deserved all that, did he?"

A second blow landed in Wilson's stomach, driving the breath from his body, and he doubled over in pain. Col. House released his grip on Wilson's arm, allowing him to sink down to the floor, one arm pressed across his stomach to ease the pain.

"You look at me," John demanded. "You look me in the eye, and tell me you think my son _deserved_ what you did to him."

Wilson was quiet, his breath ragged and shallow as he struggled to regain his voice. After a few moments, he raised dark eyes to meet John House's gaze, an eerie smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"Well," he replied at last, his voice quiet and breathless, "he did at _some_ point… didn't he? Or at least… you seemed to think so."

Col. House stared down at him, his face pale at the vague accusation that was all too clear to him. His own guilt warred with his rage against his son's abuser; he could hardly believe that Greg would have trusted even Wilson with the truth about his childhood. His voice was barely over a whisper as he demanded, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," Wilson sneered, bracing his back against the wall and slowly dragging himself to his feet again, his dark, malicious eyes never leaving John's face. "I didn't do a thing to him – _not one thing_ – that you didn't do to him first."


	26. Chapter 26

A moment of shocked silence followed Wilson's accusation

A moment of shocked silence followed Wilson's accusation.

John House stood in front of him, face turning red with fury, or shame, or both. The older man seemed at a loss for words for the moment, opening and closing his mouth as if to respond to the accusation, but finding himself without defense. Chase simply stood in the background, his mind racing as he began to process what Wilson had said.

_So House was abused as a child? Well… that actually explains a lot…_

He had wanted to help bring about some kind of justice for House, when it seemed that he wouldn't seek it for himself. But suddenly, Chase found himself wondering again if he had done the right thing in bringing House's father here to confront Wilson.

_If he's as guilty as the man he's supposedly trying to punish… how is that justice?_

"You don't know a thing about my family!" John House finally found his voice, and it shook with rage as he pointed an accusing finger in Wilson's face. "You have no right to start throwing wild allegations around. You weren't there! You don't have the first clue what happened…"

"No, but House does," Wilson retorted, a bitter laugh accompanying the words. "He remembers it well. It might be easy to keep a little boy's mouth shut – but did you really think he wouldn't tell _anybody_ once he was grown?"

John was silent. He really _hadn't_ expected his son to ever reveal their family's secrets.

"He told me what you did to him – all of it," Wilson informed him, his voice trembling with a strange note of triumph. "He told me how much he hates you – and he told me _exactly_ why." Wilson had regained his breath following John's initial attack, and now he stalked slowly toward the older man, his defiant gaze locked on John's face as he continued. "So don't you come into my house, and think you've got the right to come down on _me_ for something that you're guilty of yourself. The only difference between what I did and what you did, is that _now_, as an _adult_ – he's got the option of fighting back."

"Maybe he did." John stepped closer, meeting the younger man's advance. "But you took it from him. Sounds like he told you just enough to be dangerous, didn't he? Just enough for you to twist it and use it against him…"

"Yeah," Wilson sneered, malice in his dark eyes as he spat out, "thanks for that."

Chase nearly flinched at the cruelty the words betrayed, the deliberate way in which Wilson had used House's childhood against him.

At Wilson's words, John struck out, backhanding him across the face with his fist. Wilson staggered backward into the wall, wiping a hand across his bleeding lip as he stumbled upright again, raising his hands to protect himself as John came at him, raining blows on his face and torso.

Wilson took several of them before he caught John's fist in his hand, pushing him back, and returned the blows with a couple of his own. Wilson had gotten a good bit of practice in lately when it came to the art of physical violence, and he knew how to cause the maximum amount of pain, how to incapacitate his opponent with a single move.

The problem was – he wasn't used to an opponent who fought back.

Within minutes, John House had Wilson crouched on the floor, his back to the wall, dizzied by several blows to the head. John had the upper hand, and all Wilson could do for the moment was to raise his arms to protect his face from the other man's attack. Despite the fact that Wilson was down, John continued to kick him, enraged by Wilson's words.

As Chase watched the brutal assault, he found that he felt no sympathy for the young man who had mercilessly done the same to House, when he was far more helpless than Wilson was now. However, as he watched John House vent his rage, Chase couldn't help wondering if all of that rage was really meant for Wilson.

At last, breathing hard with exertion, John stopped hitting Wilson long enough to grab his collar and jerk him to his feet, slamming him forcefully against the wall again. Chase winced, noting the purple bruises that were already forming on Wilson's face, as well as his bloodied mouth and nose.

John's voice was low, threatening, as he leaned in close to Wilson's face. "What I've done or not done to Greg in the past is between _him _and _me_. What's done is done, and _you've_ got nothing to do with it. But I'll tell you this, James Wilson, and you'd better listen good…" He shook Wilson, knocking his head into the wall painfully as he continued, barely over a whisper, "If you _ever… touch_… my son again – ever come near him… I'll kill you. I'll track you down, wherever you try to run to… and I'll kill you."

Wilson did not respond, though Chase thought it was more because he was too dazed and in too much pain to formulate a response than out of any attempt at defiance. John House let go of Wilson's collar with a rough shove, taking a step back and looking at him with disgust for a long moment. Abruptly, he struck one final blow, slamming his fist into Wilson's face with enough force to drive the younger man to his knees on the floor again.

"Come near my son again." John spoke the words as a challenge. "Just try it."

For a moment, the only sound that filled the room was John House's heavy breathing. He turned toward Chase, not quite meeting the young doctor's eyes.

"I'm ready," he muttered. "Let's get out of here."

Chase was silent, giving him an appraising look, and finally John looked up at him in reluctant curiosity.

He was not prepared for the disgust he saw in Chase's expression; it froze him in his tracks as Chase walked toward the door. A moment later, John remembered himself and followed Chase outside to his car.

"It's not like you think," he informed him, inexplicably self-conscious in front of this virtual stranger. "Those things Wilson said…"

"…were absolutely true," Chase finished for him in a cool, mild tone that belied the anger in his eyes. "Just 'cause he's lost it doesn't mean he's lying about _everything_. And he wasn't lying about what you did."

"You couldn't possibly understand…"

"Save it," Chase snapped as he unlocked the car and got in on the driver's side. He waited to go on until John was seated in the passenger seat. "The only reason you're not walking back to the hospital is I don't want the cops to find you here if Wilson calls them… because I don't want to be implicated. Otherwise I wouldn't let you in my car. And I'd appreciate it if I don't have to hear you speak for the rest of the drive back to the hospital."

John House opened his mouth to respond, momentarily indignant – and then closed it again, at a loss for a defense.

Neither spoke another word until they reached PPTH.

"You're doing the right thing, House." Cuddy's voice was a soft, reassuring murmur as she hung up the phone and turned to face him. "You're doing the best possible thing, for you _and_ for Wilson."

He was quiet as she crossed the room and sat down beside him, waiting until she had reached out to cover his hand with hers before he spoke in a quiet, weighted voice. "Funny," he said. "Because it feels like I'm ratting out my best friend." He paused, shaking his head. "Hard to see where that's good for anyone."

"But… you _do_ see it," Cuddy observed, studying his expression. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have agreed to it."

House let out a weary sigh, nodding slowly. "I do see it," he conceded. "He… he needs help. And… he's not going to do anything to get it on his own. This is… the only option."

Cuddy gently squeezed his hand as she repeated, "You're doing the right thing." She hesitated a moment before adding, "The police station said they'd send someone over right away – within the hour."

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened slightly, and Blythe House peeked around it. "The nurse came and told me it was all right to come back? You two are done talking?"

House smiled at her as he nodded, holding out his free hand toward her, and Cuddy was amazed at the tenderness in his smile, so unusual to be seen on House's face. She realized after a moment that she had automatically withdrawn her own hand from House's, as soon as his mother had appeared, without even realizing she had done it.

She wondered if she had moved her hand quickly enough.

And then, she wondered why it should matter if Blythe saw her simple gesture of comfort toward House.

Her confused thoughts were interrupted by House's gentle words to his mother. "Mom… the police are on their way. I… I need to tell them what _really_ happened, and… and I need to tell _you_, too."

As House cautiously told her his story – leaving out the worst of the details – Blythe's eyes filled with tears. Cuddy had relinquished her chair – and her position as House's comforter – to her, and she held her son's hand as he doled out the vaguest of details about what had happened.

What he told her was still enough to be upsetting – and enough for her to put together the connection between what Wilson had done to him, and what his own father had done to him so long ago.

"Greg," she whispered at last, when he was finished, "I'm… so sorry…"

"No," he cut her off firmly. "None of this is your fault." His tone was pointed, and he glared at Cuddy over her shoulder, a single brow raised expectantly in her direction.

Cuddy suppressed a sigh, clearing her throat to draw the other woman's attention. "Mrs. House," she began hesitantly, "I… I'm sorry about what I said, before. I had no right to say those things about… your family."

Blythe gave her an appraising look, clearly suspicious. "So… you no longer believe those things you said? About…"

"I believe every word that I said," Cuddy clarified, her voice firm, her jaw set. Out of the corner of her eye she saw House roll his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "I just… have no right to say it. If House doesn't want me to say anything – well, that's his right. It's none of my business."

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly painfully tense.

_Well, that attempt at apology was a smashing success…_ Cuddy sighed to herself, retreating to the sofa across the room to allow House and his mother a bit of privacy.

"Your… your father wanted me to find him, once you were… feeling up to it…" Blythe cautiously mentioned.

"Mom," House hesitated over the words. "I… really don't feel like seeing him right now. I'm… not sure I want him here at all."

Blythe studied his face for a long moment, sympathy and regret and love all mingled in her eyes. "All right, Greg. I… I understand," she replied softly. She hesitated a moment before she added, "I think… I think I _should_ find him, though. It's been… several hours…"

House nodded, understanding. To him, it was not surprising to have his mother choose his father over him – and indeed, that was what it felt like she was doing. He couldn't blame her. In many ways, he felt that she was as much a victim of John House's bullying as he was.

"Go ahead, Mom" he assured her gently. "It's okay." He gave her a soft, ironic smile as he shrugged. "I'll be right here when you come back."

Cuddy stayed with House throughout the difficult police interview, and provided the officers with the details of House's medical case to support his hesitant accusations against Wilson. It took them a long time to gather all the information, but finally, they said they had enough to make an arrest, and left the two of them alone again.

They spent a couple of hours in quiet camaraderie, talking mostly about light topics that didn't matter much, and occasionally about ones that did. House found that it was easier to be open with Cuddy, after that first time in his apartment. He had to admit, despite his tendency to mock her and put her down – she had been there for him throughout the entire ordeal, defending him even against his own parents.

He hadn't exactly appreciated it– but he could admit that her intentions were good.

When Cuddy's phone rang, House looked at the television, not paying close attention to her conversation – until he heard a note of concern in her voice.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me. How could he…? Where…?" There was a long pause. "Well, are they at least _looking…_?" She was quiet for a long time, listening. "Well, thank you for calling. Please call me back if anything changes. Thank you."

She hung up the phone, turning toward House with worried eyes. He knew he didn't have to ask—she would explain.

"That was the police," she told him, her voice cautious and calm as she returned to his side. "They… went to Wilson's apartment, but… he's not there."

House shrugged. "He will be."

Cuddy shook her head. "Maybe not. They said a… a lot of things appeared to be gone. Clothes, personal items. They think he… somehow… knew they were coming. They think he… he ran." She swallowed hard, reading the uneasiness and fear forming on House's face. "They're trying to find him, but… for now… Wilson has disappeared."


	27. Chapter 27

"Yes, I need someone at every entrance and exit… As quickly as you can get them here… Well, if within the hour is the best you can promise me, I suppose that will have to do, but if there's anything you can do to get them here sooner… Yes

"Yes, I need someone at every entrance and exit… As quickly as you can get them here… Well, if within the hour is the best you can promise me, I suppose that will have to do, but if there's anything you can do to get them here sooner… Yes. Yes, thank you… Thank you so much for your help."

Cuddy hung up the phone and turned back to House, who was remarkably calm. He was sitting up in his bed, staring at the television screen, but didn't seem to actually see the images there. The sound was turned off anyway. His mind was consumed with much darker thoughts.

Cuddy squeezed his hand to get his attention, and he stared down at her hand absently, as if he had never seen it before. She let go, feeling self-conscious, and he looked up at her, distracted.

"What… what did they say?" he asked in a flat, cautiously neutral voice.

"They said they'll have extra security here as quickly as they can, but it's going to be at least thirty minutes before they can call in enough to cover all our exits and entrances," Cuddy explained with a heavy sigh, sitting down in the chair beside him again. "And the police are on their way. They're going to check the entire hospital, be sure he isn't already here somewhere…"

"He's probably skipped town," House suggested with a careless shrug, though the taut line of his mouth, the poorly concealed dread in his eyes, were anything but careless. "Once he knew you were onto him, he probably thought it'd be better to be gone when the police came for him."

Cuddy frowned, thoughtful. "House? Were you ever… at Wilson's apartment? At any time during these past few days? Did any of the things you told me about happen _there_?"

House was puzzled. "No. Why?"

"Well, it's just that the police said… they said there were signs of a struggle at Wilson's apartment. Overturned furniture, that sort of thing. And – and blood on the carpet."

House's eyes widened in surprised interest, his head tilted slightly as he looked at her. "How much blood?"

"They didn't say." Cuddy considered for a moment before adding, "Little enough that they're still expecting to find him alive."

House nodded, accepting the logic of her observations. His expression revealed frustration as he tried to think of anyone who might want to hurt Wilson, or anyone besides himself that Wilson might have hurt.

"He's been completely out of control," Cuddy pointed out unnecessarily. "It wouldn't surprise me if he's been getting into fights, too."

"Right," House agreed with a nod. "It's possible that he's been pissing other people off and getting into fights in between beating the crap out of me and… well… beating the crap out of me. But those fights presumably wouldn't take place in his apartment. I'm thinking more like the back alley outside a bar, the way he's been drinking."

"If he's behaving this way with people besides you," Cuddy continued thoughtfully, "maybe he's made some enemies." She paused, reaching out to touch his hand again, her tone both protective and affectionate as she added, "He's certainly made a few _because_ of what he's done to you."

"Confess, Cuddy." House managed a teasing grin, in spite of himself both amused and touched by her concern. "You went to his apartment and taught him a lesson for coming after your star… employee…"

His voice trailed off, and Cuddy gave him a curious look. He was once again staring into nothing with that intent look on his face, inspiration dawning in his eyes – and gradually mingling with worry.

"Cuddy," he asked quietly, "where's my father?"

Blythe House found her husband just as he was walking into the building, accompanied by a young doctor she did not recognize. The young man immediately veered off, away from her husband, without a word of dismissal. Although she didn't know him, the young man seemed to recognize her.

"Mrs. House." He nodded toward her in greeting as he stalked away, the expression on his face dark and thunderous.

"Who was that?" she asked as her husband reached her and took her arm. She glanced over her shoulder in concern at the young man's hastily retreating form.

John shook his head in dismissal. "Doesn't matter." He glanced around a bit suspiciously at the crowded lobby, before starting off toward the cafeteria. It was late afternoon, between meals, and the cafeteria was not likely to be busy at the moment. "Come on. I need to tell you something."

He waited until they were seated in a quiet corner of the mostly empty cafeteria before he responded to the silent question on her face. He bore a smile of grim satisfaction as he leaned across the table and explained in a hushed, secretive voice.

"I found the piece of trash who hurt Greg – and I made sure he'll never come near him again."

Blythe's eyes widened with dismay, though she couldn't suppress a feeling of satisfaction, despite her misgivings. When she thought of her son, lying so battered and broken in a hospital bed, having nearly lost his life to Wilson's abuse – she had to admit that the idea of Wilson being made to suffer for his crimes was extremely gratifying.

However, she was well aware of her husband's temper, and hoped he had not done anything to get himself in as much legal trouble as Greg's abuser. And now that Greg had agreed to go to the police, there was his legal case to consider as well. The last thing they needed was to give Wilson a way to draw sympathy to his side – if he was still capable of appearing in court at all, now that John had managed to get to him.

"John – what have you done?" she anxiously asked her husband.

John recognized the fear in her eyes, and spoke up immediately to put her mind at ease, a mildly patronizing tone in his voice. "Don't worry, honey, he'll live. But he knows better than to mess with my boy again. I just gave him a taste of his own medicine, is all. Knocked a little sense into him. I don't think he'll be giving Greg any more trouble."

"No, I'm sure he won't," Blythe agreed, a worried frown forming on her face. "John – Greg's decided to go to the police."

John was quiet for a moment, surprised. "Oh," he replied at last. "Well… that's good. Little creep deserves to be in jail."

"Yes, but… are you sure, when the police talk to him, that _you_ won't be in any… legal trouble?" Blythe cautiously persisted.

John shrugged, not too concerned. "They can't fault a man for defending his crippled son, now, can they?"

Blythe's frown did not fade. She certainly hoped not, but she could not be sure. She dared not voice her thoughts on the matter, but the words she wanted to say played again and again in her head in a troubling circle of doubt and accusation.

_John House… your temper is going to cost you everything… if it hasn't already…_

Cuddy hung up the phone again, turning to face House with a look of mingled relief and anxiety on her face.

"The extra security personnel are in the lobby. I've got to go assign them to the exits and entrances." She took a step closer to the bed, her hand resting uncertainly on the railing as she met his eyes with familiar concern. "Will you be all right for a little while…?"

"I don't know. Thirty minutes without a babysitter?" House's tone was sarcastic, but not harsh, a half-smirk on his lips. "Who knows what trouble I might get into?"

"You get into trouble every day," Cuddy reminded him.

House shrugged. "Then I guess you're good to go."

Cuddy returned his smile as she headed for the door. House smiled to himself, amused as he heard her speaking to the security guard posted outside his room.

"No one enters this room except me, or Dr. House's mother – not without Dr. House's express permission. And under no circumstances is Dr. Wilson to be allowed in this room. If you see him, put out an immediate alert, and call me." She paused. "If Dr. Wilson gets anywhere near Dr. House – I'll hold you personally responsible. And by 'personally responsible', I mean 'fired and unhireable by any security agency in this state'."

A few moments later, there was a soft knock on the door, and House's mother poked her head in the door.

"Hi, Honey…"

"Hey, Mom," he replied, frowning slightly. "Why don't you just come in?" As he spoke he beckoned her forward with his hand.

She hesitated, and when she spoke, her voice was uncertain and slightly apologetic. "Greg… your father's here. Is it… is it all right if he comes in?"

House was quiet for a moment, but there was no real hesitation. His suspicions had him eager to speak with his father, to find out how he had spent the last few hours. "That's fine," he replied. "Come on in, both of you."

The door was barely closed when House spoke up, voice calm and sharp as he looked his father in the eye.

"What did you do to Wilson?"

John House looked taken aback by the question, but recovered quickly, a satisfied smile rising to his lips as he came to stand at his son's bedside. "I knocked the crap out of him," he replied without hesitation. "I went to his apartment, and I showed him what happens when you mess with _my_ family. He won't be bothering you again, son. I can promise you that."

House's expression did not change, no emotion showing on his face in response to his father's words. "How did you know where he lived?" He paused, considering before he added, "How did you even know it was Wilson?"

"Another doctor told me," John shrugged, not seeing why that was important. "Why does it matter? Point is, I took care of him. He won't be coming around again…"

"Oh, no," House shot back with deceptively soft sarcasm. "A man who's just gotten the crap kicked out of him by a seventy-year-old isn't gonna feel the _slightest_ need to reclaim his manly dignity. I'm sure you showed him the error of his ways – sure he's completely willing to forget how mad he is at me, now that my _dad_ knocked a few of his teeth down his throat. I'm expecting a get-well floral arrangement with his name on it any minute now."

John frowned, his shoulders squaring defensively. "You don't sound very appreciative."

"Hmm, I wonder, could that be because I'm _not_?" House snapped. "You were the one who was always so big on me learning to fight my own battles. Since when have you started fighting them for me?"

"Since you started lying down and taking beatings from a man a seventy-year-old could take!" John snarled, his temper flaring at his son's unexpected reaction to his attempts to defend him. "If you'd stood up to him from the start, things never would have gotten this far!"

"You weren't here!" House shot back, leaning forward in the bed with an effort, grimacing at the pain it caused his battered torso. "You don't know what happened—all the things that were said and done between us. You have no right to come in here and start passing judgment."

He paused, a cold smirk rising to his lips as he nodded slowly. A part of his mind knew that he should stop, but he couldn't seem to make himself. The floodgates had cracked open when he had first told Cuddy about Wilson, and the gap had gradually widened since then with every new secret he told, every new person who learned a little bit more of the things he tried to keep so well hidden. Now, faced with his father's criticism and blame on top of everything else he had been through, House couldn't seem to hold back the fury and resentment that rose up within him.

His voice was bitter, dripping with acid sarcasm as he continued, "You can tell me just exactly where _I_ went wrong, exactly what _I_ should have done differently – because you're such an expert in dealing with _your_ problems, aren't you?"

"That doesn't mean I don't have the right to tell you where you're wrong. You ought to watch the way you speak to me, Greg. I'm still your father…"

"Yeah. And we both know that makes you qualified to point out to me how this and everything else is _my fault_…"

"I can at least tell you that allowing that jerk to knock you around for months without saying anything to anyone or trying to stop him is stupid and pathetic," John declared, unfazed by his son's almost imperceptible flinch at the words. "You didn't even _try_ to fight back. You just let him do whatever he wanted – and that's ridiculous. No son of _mine_ would…"

"See, that's where you're dead wrong," House interrupted, eyes blazing with righteous fury as he glared defiantly up at his father. "It's _because_ I'm a son of yours that I was so willing to let…"

"_Don't you dare say that_!"

John House's voice rose to a thunderous volume as he took a furious step nearer to his son, and this time House couldn't quite conceal his instinctive flinch, as he drew back against the bed again, his entire body tensed in preparation for the actions he knew usually accompanied that familiar tone in his father's voice.

It had been over thirty years since his father had last laid a hand on him – but it had only been hours since Wilson's abuse had mirrored that of his father. Memories old and new assailed House, and that familiar sense of panic consumed him – his body breaking out in a cold sweat, his racing heart evidenced by the frenetically beeping monitor at his side as he pressed back against the bed behind him, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the threat in front of him.

John House seemed oblivious as he continued raging, fists clenched at his sides.

"Don't you try to blame this on me! I did my _best_ by you, and it's not my fault if you were too arrogant and stubborn to learn! I am your _father_, damn it, and you will be respectful…"

His voice trailed off in surprise, as he suddenly found his view of his son obscured – by his wife. He hadn't noticed as Blythe had risen from her chair with swift purpose, but he couldn't help but notice now, as she stood between him and Greg, her stance speaking of dignity and determination.

"You need to calm down, John," she stated softly.

"Don't tell me to calm down!" he snapped indignantly. "Do you hear the way he's talking to me?"

"Do you see what you're doing to him?" she countered without hesitation, her voice still soft, her eyes sparkling with tears as she gestured toward the heart monitor. When he finally, reluctantly looked at it, and his eyes widened slightly with realization, Blythe continued, her voice trembling with repressed anger and accusation. "Your _son_ should not be so frightened to hear you raise your voice, that… that he…"

She stopped, unable to find the words to express what she was thinking, feeling, as she did what she had wanted to do for so many years, and stood between her son and his father's abusive words and hands.

"John," she continued at last, her voice barely over a whisper, tears streaking her face, "you need to go."

John opened his mouth in disbelief, closing it again, then opening it again as he sought a response – but found none.

"Really," Blythe insisted softly. "The nurses should be in here in a moment to check on him. Seeing that you're the cause of this… reaction… it's probably best if you're not here when they do."

"You can't just… order me out…" he stammered, still stunned that his wife was actually standing up to him.

"The guard said you were only allowed in here if he wants you in here," Blythe reminded her husband, her resolve strengthened by the anger she saw in his eyes at her words.

He had not been at all pleased to hear that news for the first time, and it seemed to reignite his indignation to hear it again now. She gestured toward the bed, where House seemed to have recovered from his initial panic, but sat now with his fists clenched at his sides, his head turned away from them, his jaw working with repressed emotion as he fought for control.

"Does it look like he wants you here?"

Just as she spoke, the door opened, and Cuddy returned. She stopped near the door, taking in the tense stand-off, and House's state of visible upset just beyond it.

"What's going on here?" she asked sharply, as she moved swiftly past them to House's side.

Seeing that this turn of events could not possibly help his side of the matter, John House swore under his breath as he turned and stalked toward the door. He slammed it hard behind him, and House flinched at the sound. Cuddy glared at the door, seemingly about to follow the enraged man and give him a piece of her mind – but Blythe House beat her to it.

Standing in the doorway of the room, she quietly called her husband's name.

He turned to face her, an expectant look on his face.

The fact that he clearly expected an apology only served to give her courage to say what she had intended. She held his gaze firmly as she spoke in a soft, unyielding voice.

"I think it's best if you don't come back – not until you're ready to stop yelling and making accusations – and listen to what your son has to say."


	28. Chapter 28

When Blythe House turned around after quietly closing the door, she stopped, suddenly self-conscious under the intent gaze of her son

When Blythe House turned around after quietly closing the door, she stopped, suddenly self-conscious under the intent gaze of her son. He was staring at her, hope in his unusually vulnerable eyes – hope, and something resembling awe. Cuddy's eyes were tactfully averted as she checked House's IV, which really didn't need any extra monitoring at the moment.

"_What_?" she asked, sounding defensive and a little flustered as she took her seat beside him again.

House was quiet for a moment, shaking his head slightly as if at a loss for words. "I just… can't believe you just said that."

Blythe's embarrassed half-smile faded, her expression becoming serious as she held his gaze. "I… should have said it a long time ago."

Neither spoke for a moment, a weighted silence filling the room. There was so much that had gone unsaid between them for so long, and both felt the years of unspoken feelings and unacknowledged hurts brimming over, about to spill out. The impending conversation felt right – healthy and important and necessary, after so many years of pain kept secret. It was not going to be easy, but they both instinctively felt that it _was_ about to happen.

For House in particular, it was a rare and terrifying feeling.

His eyes never left his mother's face as he spoke in a strangely soft, controlled voice. "Cuddy…?"

"Gone," she replied without hesitation, giving his arm a quick, affectionate squeeze as she headed for the door.

As the door closed behind her, the silence became intensely awkward. There was so much that needed to be said between mother and son – and neither knew where to begin. At last, Blythe settled on the simplest, most necessary of the dozens of statements circling in her mind, unable to meet his eyes as she spoke.

"I'm so… _so sorry_, honey."

Years of habitually defending his mother, mentally if not physically, drove House to respond automatically. "You didn't do anything wrong…"

"I didn't _do anything_," Blythe softly corrected, reaching out to take her son's hand. "That's just it, Greg. I just… stood by, and… watched. Watched him criticize and yell and hit and… and… convince you that you deserve to be treated like this."

"That's not… not why this happened," House insisted, but his voice was unusually subdued, his gaze focused on the thin blanket that covered him, his fingers picking nervously at the coarse fabric. "He… did a lot of things wrong, but… it's not his fault that Wilson did this…"

"Yes, it is." Blythe's smile was sad, knowing. "You just said so, Greg. A few minutes ago, before he… _before_."

House was quiet for a moment, still not looking at her. His expression was carefully neutral, his voice slow and cautious when he finally replied. "No one's perfect. Of course he made mistakes. I… I'm sure I did, too. I was… difficult... rebellious…"

"You were seven." Blythe's voice was heavy with barely veiled anger and accusation, the soft intensity of her voice silencing his excuses. "The… first time he… he hurt you."

"Six," House whispered automatically, immediately giving her a regretful grimace. He hadn't really meant to say it aloud. The painful memories in his mind seemed to spill out of their own accord. "I was seven the first time… you found out."

He tried to keep his voice as even as possible, having no desire to hurt his mother, but it was impossible to keep a faint note of bitterness from his voice – a child's hurt and confusion threatening to spill out of the mouth of the man he had become.

"And really… what could you have done? I mean… he can be a very… intimidating man. It's not like you really had a… a choice in the matter…"

_Don't say it… Don't go there… Just keep things reasonably safe and keep keeping your mouth shut…_

_Yeah… 'cause I'm so _good_ at that…_

He hated the pain and vulnerability he heard in his own voice, but he found that he simply couldn't stop. "I know that… that you were… as much under his thumb as I was… more, probably… I'm sure if there was anything you could have done, you'd have… you'd have done _something_, or… or _said_ something…"

"Greg…" She gently squeezed his hand, and he fell silent. She paused, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes to continue in a quiet, knowing voice, "… it's all right… if you _haven't_ forgiven me."

He blinked back tears, willing himself not to look away from her, though overwhelmingly moved by the tumult of emotions he read in her eyes. "There's nothing to forgive," he insisted in a barely audible voice that wasn't the slightest bit convincing. "I don't blame you."

Blythe drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow, shaky sigh. "You should." A silent tear slipped down her face as she continued, "I knew he was… too hard on you. Knew he was… doing irreparable damage. And I was too… too scared and insecure and stupid to say anything."

His mother's tears were too much for House's fragile control. "No," he whispered, shaking his head, his vision blurred for a moment before it cleared again as his own tears fell. "You didn't…"

"I did." Blythe's hand on his cheek stilled his protests, as she caught his gaze again and held it. Her expression was one of determination to own the mistakes she had made so many years ago. "I stood by and watched while my son… my little boy… was… was beaten, and broken down, and… and made to feel like he was… was stupid and strange and not good enough…" Her voice softened, her eyes shining with a sort of wonder as she studied his face. "… because of the very things that make him so… so _magnificent_."

Her gentle touch in combination with the affirming words he had never received was too much for him, and House lowered his head, ashamed of his tears, raising a hand to cover hers on his cheek. He shook his head, unable to find words – but the indication was clear.

After so long believing his father's cruel assessment of him, it was difficult to accept that anything else could be true. Vicious words echoed in his mind, ruthlessly insisting that his father was right about him all along.

_Arrogant, rebellious, stubborn, stupid boy! You'll never amount to half what you think you are! You keep thinking you're so much smarter than everybody else, you're gonna end up a lonely, miserable failure! Just wait and see…_

"Gregory House" Her use of his full name – a tactic that still had the ability to command his complete and instant attention – immediately drew him from his painful thoughts. "You listen to me." Her eyes searched his as she continued firmly, "You are a brilliant… sensitive… amazing man, no matter what he said. And he doesn't really believe it. You know he doesn't."

"Of course he believes it. He meant every word." House looked away again.

"He loves you…"

"Half the time he couldn't stand to _look_ at me…"

"Because he couldn't stand to see in you what he knew he could never be," Blythe argued. Firmly, she tilted his head up again, insisting that he meet her eyes. He was frowning, shaking his head slightly in confusion, struggling to understand. "Your father's career military, and the son of career military. His entire life's about… conformity, and… rules. Order." She paused, allowing her words to sink in before she added, "Don't you think he's ever wanted _more_ than that?"

"So he couldn't just be happy for me?" House's voice shook as he looked up at her, his lips twisted in a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You're saying he was… what? _Jealous_, of _me_?"

"No, sweetheart…" Blythe shook her head. "...not jealous." She was quiet a moment, thinking, before she went on, "Afraid. For you."

As she tried to think of how to make him understand, House considered her words in silence. "Conformity is… boring and dull, and would never have allowed you to accomplish all that you have. But it's also… _safe_. As long as you refused to conform… there was no way he could protect you."

"_He_ was the one I needed protecting from."

Blythe flinched at those words. "I know," she whispered. "And I failed you. And I'm sorry."

When she tentatively reached to put her arms around him, House leaned forward into her embrace, allowing his mother to hold him as she had done after the injuries and "accidents" for which she'd never wanted to ask the cause. This time, she knew the cause – and she was determined to protect him as she hadn't before.

House was tense at first, trying to fight down his emotions – but it was a lost cause. The wave broke, washing over him in a torrent of silent tears, his shoulders shaking as he clung to her and accepted her offering of comfort, reassurance – and most importantly, the simple acknowledgement of the pain of his childhood.

It was late – but not _too_ late.

He didn't try to tell her it was okay again. They both knew that it wasn't.

And yet, in a way… it finally was.

_Okay… Don't panic… Everything's going to be just fine… I've just got to… got to think…_

Wilson forced himself to take several slow, deep breaths, as he sat on the edge of a strange bed in a strange room, instead of the comfortable, familiar bed in his own apartment across town.

_Yet again, my life is in shambles and I'm living out of a hotel room – and yet again, thanks to House._

Slow, deep breaths became rapid, heavy ones as he fought to control the rage that accompanied that thought. As far as Wilson was concerned, this was just more evidence that House was responsible for everything that was wrong in his life. At the moment, however, he couldn't afford to waste time seething over what had already happened.

He had bigger worries to consider.

John House's visit to his apartment – and accompanied by House's one-time favorite victim, Chase, of all people! – had let him know that his secret was most definitely out. As long as Cuddy was the only one who knew, and House stuck to the story Wilson had given him, he could be fairly certain that the investigation would not go any further.

Now that House's parents knew, however, things had definitely changed. John and Blythe House would be a lot more likely than Cuddy to go to the authorities, in spite of their son's wishes. The more people who knew, the more danger Wilson's reputation, career, entire _future_ was in.

Deciding that caution was the order of the day, he had packed up a few things and left his apartment – and not a moment too soon. He had actually passed two police cars as he had turned out of his apartment complex. His heart rate accelerated, and he spent the rest of the drive glancing nervously into his rearview mirror for any sign of pursuit.

He made it to the outskirts of Princeton without incident, where he checked into a hotel under a false name. It wasn't a permanent solution by any means – but it would at least buy him some time to think.

Unfortunately, all he could think about was House.

His expression darkened as he carefully touched his bloodied lip, his fingertips trailing up to inspect the bruised, swollen area around his eye. Outrage flared up again as he remembered the humiliation and fear of John House's attack. His hands flexed into trembling fists as he let his thoughts linger on the only thing he really _wanted_ to think about at the moment – revenge.

_This is your fault, House… all of it. And you're not going to get away with destroying my life again. I'm going to make sure that you don't…_

He knew that security at the hospital would be tight at the moment; it would be next to impossible to get to House while he was in the hospital.

_But he has to go home sometime._ Wilson smiled coldly to himself. _And we'll see if I can't have a nice surprise waiting for him when he does…_


	29. Chapter 29

Chase was still fuming as he left the OR a couple of hours later

Chase was still fuming as he left the OR a couple of hours later. The operation had been a simple gall bladder removal, and he had performed the entire surgery on auto-pilot. The entire time, House's situation was circling in the back of his mind, consuming his thoughts whenever his mind was free to allow it – which happened to be the moment he left the OR.

Unaware of his quick, angry gait or the way his jaw was set with frustration, he made his way to the clinic, where he was scheduled to spend the next few hours.

"Dr. Chase."

Just past Cuddy's office, he turned to see her standing in the doorway. She beckoned him into her office, not waiting to see if he would follow. By the time Chase crossed the threshold, his palms were damp and his mouth was dry. He felt like a high school student who had just been called to the principal's office.

The expression on Cuddy's face as she silently nodded for him to sit did nothing to alleviate that feeling. He complied, his hands nervously folded in his lap as he waited for her to speak.

"The police found blood on Wilson's carpet."

Chase frowned as if confused, all innocence. "House's blood?"

"No. Presumably Wilson's." Cuddy's eyes were focused on him with a calm scrutiny that made him even more nervous. "House's father disappeared for a while this afternoon. In fact, no one seems to have seen him at all between the hours of one and three."

"You're thinking… he went after Wilson?" Chase guessed, mentally congratulating himself on the calm, even tone of his voice. "Payback for his son?" He let out a quiet huff of approval when Cuddy was silent. "Good on him, then."

Cuddy smiled coolly, and Chase's stomach lurched. "I'm just wondering… how he knew it was Wilson at all."

Chase's frown deepened. "House didn't tell him?"

Cuddy shook her head. "Also," she continued softly, "I don't know how he would have found his way to Wilson's apartment. Even if he's been to visit Wilson before… he wasn't living with Amber the last time House's parents were in town."

Chase shrugged slightly, pretending to consider that. "And… you need me to… help you figure it out?" he guessed, his tone leading, uncertain, as he bravely met her eyes.

Cuddy was silent a moment before clarifying. "I need you to help me figure out… where _you_ were between one and three. Because… no one seems to remember seeing _you_ during those times, either."

"I… had an operation…"

"Not until 3:30."

Chase let out a nervous, dismissive laugh. "Just 'cause no one happened to see me…"

"You are the only one besides me and House's parents who knows about Wilson," Cuddy stated. "Therefore, I can only conclude that either you drove to Wilson's apartment this afternoon and administered a little payback – or you helped the one who did."

"So what if I told him?" Chase relented a bit, realizing he was trapped. "The man's his father. He's got a right to know."

Cuddy's gaze darkened with anger, and Chase recognized the reason for it immediately. He could see the same outrage in Cuddy's eyes he had felt in Wilson's apartment, in the moment when he had realized who had been the first to abuse House. "No, he really hasn't."

"You're right," Chase agreed after a moment's hesitation. "He hasn't."

Cuddy's expression shifted to one of alarm. "Why would you say that?"

Slightly flustered, Chase retorted, "Because _you_ said that. I was just… agreeing with you."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. "Why would you agree unless you knew what you were agreeing with?"

"I just… assumed you knew what you were… talking about…" Chase's voice trailed off as he recognized the weakness of his argument – that he, in fact, _had_ no argument. His mind raced as he tried to come up with an explanation. Cuddy's eyebrows were raised expectantly, and she tapped her fingers on her desk impatiently as she waited for an explanation.

Trapped, Chase closed his eyes and let out a defeated sigh.

"Okay, so I told the man where to find the bastard who nearly killed his son. Is that a crime?"

"That depends on how much damage was done." Cuddy sighed, her expression solemn and uncertain as she regarded the quietly defiant young doctor across from her. "Not to mention the fact that any sympathy Wilson can gain from visible injuries will not help House's case." When Chase gave her a look of surprise, she added, "House changed his mind, told the police what happened. How badly did Colonel House hurt Wilson?"

"Not badly," Chase replied with a shrug. "He'll be sore in the morning, but he was still conscious when we left." He smirked as he added, "Probably just softened him up a bit for the cops when they show up."

"They already did, and Wilson wasn't there," Cuddy informed him, irritation rising in her voice at Chase's careless tone. "And I'm fairly certain he would've been if he hadn't just been _attacked_ there."

Chase's face paled at that, his eyes widening slightly as he realized the implications of his actions. Cuddy felt her resolve weakening, but kept her tone cool and severe as she continued.

"You instigated a physical assault that without your input would have been impossible. You've caused possible complications in a legal case that's going to be difficult enough to prove as it is. And you shared confidential information with the family of a patient without that patient's consent…"

Alarmed, Chase spoke up. "House isn't my patient…"

"It doesn't matter. You had no right to tell Colonel House…"

"And _you_ had no right to tell _me_!" Chase was defensive.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "_Wilson_ basically told you, with his behavior in House's room and out in the hallway. I just filled in the gaps." A slight smile formed on her lips as she added, "And I can just call that a medical consult. You, on the other hand, haven't a leg to stand on."

Chase stared at her, fearful, beginning to think for the first time that he might actually be in trouble.

At last, Cuddy softened, her shoulders falling slightly as she relented. "However. I happen to be somewhat pleased with the results of your actions, although I'm not sure if I should be yet. If all Colonel House did was just rough him up a little, Wilson deserved everything he got and more. Did he fight back?"

Chase nodded, still too unsettled to speak.

Cuddy nodded, too, in satisfaction. "Then as long as there were no weapons involved, you should be legally clear. The timing was very bad," she sighed, shaking her head, "because now Wilson's on the run, apparently. But… but I can understand why you did it. I just needed to find out from you exactly what happened." As Chase visibly relaxed, Cuddy allowed a smile to show on her face, meeting his eyes. "I just wish I could have been there to see it."

Within a couple of days, House was well enough to go home.

Blythe wanted to go with him, to be sure he was safe and settled and comfortable, but John insisted that they had to get going. He didn't enter House's room again after their altercation, on occasion calling Blythe out into the hall to speak with her.

House tried not to appear disappointed. He hadn't exactly expected an apology, but he had expected – _something_.

_That's what I get for hoping. What was I thinking? He'll never change…_

As Blythe said goodbye to her son, with John waiting impatiently for her in the hall, she couldn't help but notice the way his eyes drifted wistfully toward the door, in spite of his resolve. She took his hands in hers, drawing his attention back to her with a warm smile.

"Give him time, honey," she advised softly. "It's a lot for him to take in all at once. It's a start that you mentioned it to him at all."

House nodded, not trusting his voice.

"If you… want to come home this Christmas," Blythe continued hesitantly, "you'd be more than welcome, dear. I'd… I'd love it if you would."

House grimaced, looking up at her apologetically. "I'm… not sure that's such a good idea, Mom…"

"Actually," Blythe gently interrupted, "I think the timing might be just right. It'll give him time to cool down, and… and maybe if you still want to… to talk about some of these things…"

"He won't want to let me…"

"_I'll_ want to let you." House glanced up again in surprise, as she continued with determination in her voice. "Things are going to change, sweetheart. I'm… not going to just sit back and watch him talk to you with less respect than he'd give a stranger. Not anymore. If… if you _do_ decide to come… and want to try to work some of these things out… I want you to know that I'll… I'll support you, son. I will."

House stared at her in wonder for a long moment. At last, he nodded slowly. "I'll… think about it," he conceded softly, the barest hint of a thoughtful smile on his lips. After a moment, he repeated more certainly, "I'll think about it. I… I just might do that."

Half an hour after his parents left for the airport, it was time for House to go home. Despite his protests, Cuddy insisted that an armed guard accompany him, and be posted outside the door of his apartment, paying for the assignment out of her own personal account.

They still had no idea where Wilson might be, and Cuddy knew that Wilson still had a key to House's apartment. House was getting the locks changed the next day, but until then, Cuddy wanted to be sure that he was safe.

Despite the fact that it was the middle of her work day, Cuddy left the hospital to drive him home, the guard assigned to House's apartment following behind in his own vehicle. Much to House's annoyance and frustration, she refused to simply drop him off at his door, choosing instead to accompany him inside.

When she saw the state of his apartment, she immediately set to work straightening up, much to House's embarrassment. He tried to stop her, but when he realized she would not be stopped, he finally gave up and left her to her self-appointed task.

She removed at least a dozen dirty dishes from his living room, stacking them in the sink, before washing them all, drying them and putting them away. She wiped down the kitchen counters and table, then the coffee table. Finally finished cleaning, Cuddy checked the refrigerator to be sure House had something to eat for lunch. Fortunately, he had cheese and lunchmeat and bread that was not quite stale.

Satisfied that she could return to the hospital and know that he would be all right, Cuddy prepared to leave. It was only then she noticed that House was not in the living room. She approached his partially closed bedroom door with caution, a puzzled frown forming on her face when she saw that he was not inside.

She finally found him in the bathroom.

The door was open, and he was standing inside… just staring blankly at the empty bathtub.

Cuddy felt a dull ache begin in her chest as she cautiously approached him, taking the open door as a sign that it was all right to enter. House didn't even seem to notice as she stood beside him, looking down for a moment at the ordinary object that had so arrested his attention.

Cautiously, she reached out a hand and slipped it gently into his, without a word. Much to her relief, he did not pull his hand away.

"He knew just what to do," he said softly at last. "What to say. To… to… bring it all back. I trusted him. I told him things I'd… never told anyone. Probably never will again. And… and he… used it against me."

"Not everyone's going to do that, House," Cuddy reminded him gently, squeezing his hand lightly. She looked up at him, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes to continue softly, earnestly, "I will always be here for you. You can trust me."

He stared back at her for a moment, studying her face, before replying with quiet, honest regret.

"I… I want to. I'm just… not sure I can right now." He was quiet for a moment, looking back at the empty tub. "Stacey… then… then Wilson… I just… It's not as if trust comes that easily to me to begin with, and… right now… trusting anyone at all seems like the heighth of stupidity."

Cuddy tried to hide the unreasonable disappointment she felt. She was not really surprised. "I know," she replied simply.

She was surprised to feel his hand tighten around hers, and looked back up at him to find him giving her a little half-smile. Beneath the teasing surface of his tone, Cuddy could hear honesty and affection, as he added, "But for what it's worth… if there was anyone I _would _be stupid enough to trust… it'd be you."

That simple confession meant a lot to Cuddy, who knew House well enough to know how much it would take for him to trust again, in the wake of Wilson's betrayal. She felt her throat tighten, and a suspicious prickling warmth behind her eyes, and had to look away from the intensity of his gaze.

"I… I guess I need to get back," she regretfully admitted, reluctantly withdrawing her hand from his. "I've still got several hours worth of work to do."

House nodded, following her as she walked out of the bathroom, walking with her toward the door. Just before she opened it, he reached out a hand to still hers, and she looked up at him, calmly expectant.

"Cuddy," he said softly, hesitating. "Thank you."

She nodded quietly, a little uncomfortable with his gratitude for something she felt she owed him. "You're welcome."

He moved his hand, but she stood there a moment longer, indecisive, before making up her mind and turning to face him.

"I'll be off work by six tonight," she informed him. "Would you like to… maybe have dinner with me tonight?" When he raised his eyebrows at the suggestion, she shrugged casually, explaining, "I don't think either of us is going to feel like being alone tonight. So… how about we be 'not alone'… together?"

She held her breath, not sure what to expect. A part of her was certain that House would behave as House always had in the past, and reject the offer as a gesture of pity. Another part of her sensed that something had changed between them in the last few days, and that her offer of company was one he would gladly accept.

After a moment's hesitation, House nodded, giving her a tentative smile.

"Yes. I think I'd like that very much."


	30. Chapter 30

By the time she left her office at six-thirty that evening, Cuddy was exhausted

By the time she left her office at six-thirty that evening, Cuddy was exhausted. It had been a typically long and stressful day, compounded by the situation with House and his family. She was trying her best to be supportive to a man who was more resistant than most toward any attempts at support.

Of course, at the moment, House seemed more receptive to her attempts at comfort than he had ever been in the past.

Every time the phone rang, Cuddy wondered if it was the police, with word of Wilson – or someone calling to tell her that something had gone wrong at House's apartment. Maybe the security guard had fallen asleep, or left House alone for a few minutes to get a coffee, or _something_ that had left him vulnerable to attack. What if House was hurt, or worse, because of her failure to provide him with adequate protection?

Each time she answered to find that it was an ordinary, routine sort of call did nothing to quell her fears the next time the telephone rang.

She allowed herself to feel a measure of relief when the time came to leave her office, and she hadn't received any urgent, emergency calls about House or Wilson. However, it was somewhat troubling to note that she still hadn't heard anything from the police about Wilson's whereabouts. As of now, no one knew where he was, or what trouble he might be getting into while the police searched fruitlessly for any sign of him.

She was eager to get to House's apartment, if only to reassure herself that he was safe.

When she knocked on his door ten minutes later, she was surprised to find that he seemed just as eager to see her. It was impossible to miss the relief in his eyes when he opened the door, the tense set of his shoulders easing as he took a step backward to allow her entrance, nodding a terse greeting to the guard at the door before closing it quietly behind her.

"It's about time you showed up," he grumbled. "I was about to chew off my own arm."

Cuddy raised a single brow, a slight smile on her lips. "Getting a bit stir crazy, or just hungry?"

Her comment brought the barest ghost of a smile to House's face. "Little bit of both," he admitted. "Where are we going?"

"You're letting me choose? Just like that?" Cuddy teased, though she had already made a reservation.

"I'm letting you pay." House shrugged. "Seems only fair."

Cuddy smiled, glad to see signs of the old House showing through the tired, worn down demeanor he had been carrying for the last few weeks. Still, she could see the weariness in his eyes… the taut, anxious lines of his face. Recognition of his brave attempt to conceal his vulnerability made her want to reach out to him, to put her arms around him and offer him comfort.

She settled for an affectionate push on his shoulder, turning him slightly back toward his bedroom. "Go get a jacket if you're coming with me," she ordered. "Otherwise they won't let you in the door."

"Oh, so it's _that_ kind of place." House sighed, rolling his eyes, but Cuddy could tell that he didn't really mind. "You sure they won't kick me out anyway?" He held up his cane, apparently indicated his crippled status. "Some of those types of places take issue with minorities."

"You're no minority, House." Cuddy smirked. "What, you think there's a shortage of pains in the ass in the world?"

"Apparently not, judging by the statistics in this room." House's words were muffled as he disappeared into his bedroom, presumably looking for a suit jacket to put on over his rumpled button down.

Cuddy had deliberately chosen a higher end restaurant, wanting to give House a pleasant evening out. She knew it had been far too long since anyone had done anything nice for him, made him feel special, like they enjoyed spending time with him – and as vehemently as he would have denied it, Cuddy knew that everyone, even House, needed those things.

And although under ordinary circumstances she probably never would have admitted it – Cuddy _did_ enjoy spending time with House.

Possibly… a little _too_ much.

She had chosen a popular fusion restaurant someone at the hospital had recommended to her – a trendy, casual spot for lunch that transformed in the evening into a reservations-only kind of place, with an elegant, unique dining atmosphere.

Or so Cuddy had been told.

When the casual conversation came to an abrupt halt at the doors to the restaurant, Cuddy frowned in concern at House. He had stopped short on the sidewalk, staring up at the sign above the doors, a slow, convulsive swallow visible in his throat. He looked pale, and Cuddy could see reluctance in his eyes, his stance, as he hesitated outside the door.

"Is everything all right?" she asked softly, casting a bewildered glance toward the restaurant, seeing no sign of whatever was causing him such apprehension. "House?"

He shook his head slightly, as if shaking himself out of a daze, before giving her a self-conscious glance. "Yeah." He nodded. "Everything's fine."

"Have you… been here before?" Cuddy hesitated, her eyes searching his face for the answers to her unspoken questions.

"Once." House didn't look at her as he answered, his mouth forming a grim line as he just continued to stare at the doors of the restaurant.

"We could… go somewhere else…?"

House shook his head again. "No," he insisted. "No, it's fine. This is good. Food's great."

"Are you sure…?"

Cuddy knew better than to allow her concern to show, but she couldn't help it. She could tell that something was wrong, but had no idea what it was or how serious it might be. And for his part, House seemed determined to pretend that nothing was wrong at all.

"Yes, Cuddy, I'm sure," House replied, his voice tight and restrained with exaggerated patience as he took a firm, deliberate step forward. "Come on. We're gonna miss our table if we stand out here all night."

Actually, they were right on time for their reservation. A well-dressed maitre 'd saw them to their table, and within moments, their server was there, ready to take their drink order. Cuddy smiled politely up at him as she ordered her cosmopolitan, failing to notice House's slight flinch when he heard her order.

When the waiter turned to House, he shook his head just slightly, indicating that he would not be ordering alcohol – but then froze, a pensive frown creasing his brow as he reconsidered. He hadn't touched alcohol since the night of the accident; anytime he poured himself a glass, he found himself too sickened by his own guilt to take a sip.

Tonight, however, felt like a good time to make a change.

"You guys have a drink here… I have no idea what it's called. It's… cotton candy blue, and tastes… about like cotton candy. I think, just _maybe_ there's a trace of actual _alcohol_ in it, under all that tooth-rotting sugar and artificial coloring. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

House was smiling up at the waiter, genuinely trying to be polite – but at this point even when he was sincere, to Cuddy's eyes, the expression seemed utterly false on him. The waiter seemed a bit unsettled by the older man's toothy grin and piercing eyes, not quite making eye contact as he suggested a drink he thought fit the description House had given him.

"Yeah. I'll have one of those."

As the waiter left to get their drinks, Cuddy raised her eyebrows in a questioning expression.

"_What_?"

Cuddy shrugged casually. "Nothing. That just… doesn't exactly sound like your kind of drink, is all."

House gave her a look of mock horror at the idea, faking a shudder. "It's not," he said emphatically. He was quiet for a moment, his expression growing serious again, and Cuddy could see the momentary debate in his eyes, before he drew in a deep breath and admitted softly, "It's Amber's."

Cuddy's eyes widened before she remembered to control her reaction, and she took a sip of her water before prompting quietly, "Amber's?"

House nodded slowly, looking down at the tablecloth as he calmly explained. "The… one time I was here before. It was with Wilson and Amber. She… ordered one of those." A bittersweet smile crossed his face as he amended, "She ordered two, if you count Wilson's – which I do. Cotton candy flavored alcohol isn't exactly _his_ thing, either."

Cuddy hesitated, choosing her words with caution, keeping her tone carefully neutral. "That must have been… unbearably awkward."

She laughed quietly, surprised at her own words, after all. She had meant to say "nice", but found at the last moment that she couldn't be anything less than honest with House on this subject.

He'd know if she wasn't, anyway.

House let out a nearly silent chuckle, nodding. "It was. Of course… it might not have been, if I'd actually been invited." He paused, considering before amending, "No. It'd still have been unbearably awkward. I think I had more fun giving the two of them a hard time."

A slightly awkward silence descended then, House staring down at the table, lost in memories, as Cuddy idly sipped her water again. She could tell he had something on his mind, was on the verge of speaking again. All she could do to help him get there was to let him find his own words, without pushing.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and heavy with regretful memory. "When all this started… with Wilson… it was… it was about her. He was… punishing me, for… for what I did to her…"

Cuddy frowned. "House, you didn't…"

His raised hand silenced her well-intentioned protest, and he went on softly. "He felt like he had the right to… to make me pay for costing her her life." He hesitated, before adding more quietly, "Maybe he did. A little. But… but after a while, it wasn't about her anymore. I can't even remember the last time he mentioned her name."

Cuddy was surprised and touched by the genuine sorrow, the unusual note of respect she heard in his voice when he mentioned Amber. She hesitated, torn between going with her own instincts, and going with what she knew of _House's_ instincts, before finally venturing to slide her hand across the table, the tips of her fingers brushing gently against the back of his hand.

"He became so consumed with his anger, he forgot why he was angry in the first place," Cuddy agreed gently. "He took it much farther than she ever would have wanted him to take it."

She fell silent as the waiter arrived with their drinks. House waited until he'd set them down and walked away to glance up at her, a solemn, almost shy look in his arresting blue eyes as they met hers. He picked up his glass, raising it toward her slightly, and Cuddy mirrored the gesture with her own glass. His voice was quiet, almost reverent, as he voiced his simple toast, and downed the contents of the glass in a single draught.

"To Amber."

When House ordered his second drink – a much more manly and suited-to-him scotch on the rocks – Cuddy knew that she had to limit herself to her first drink, as she would be driving.

House, apparently, felt no such limitations.

She couldn't really blame him for wanting to make the world go away for a little while, given the current circumstances of _his_ world. Still, she gently stopped him after the fourth drink, reminding him teasingly that her expense account would only stretch so far. House knew that wasn't her real reason, but allowed her to stop him anyway, and Cuddy felt a warm rush of affection for him when she realized it was for her benefit.

Stopping before he was sloppy, staggering drunk was House's version of respect for her.

When they left the restaurant, House was not drunk, just… pleasantly relaxed.

Cuddy drove him to his apartment, walking inside with him to be sure that he was all right – though tonight, the fears that had been plaguing him seemed to be far away. While she had witnessed House drunk, and had no desire to do so again, Cuddy had to admit that House _almost_ drunk was a much more pleasant animal entirely. He was actually smiling, making jokes with her that had nothing to do with her body or clothes, and making no effort to hide the fact that he was actually enjoying her company.

At his request, she sat with him on the couch for a while, just watching television and enjoying a companionable silence, broken by the occasional sarcastic comment about the show they were watching. When Cuddy finally thought to look at the clock, it was after eleven.

"I've _really_ gotta go," she sighed, surprised to find that she was actually disappointed, as she rose to her feet.

She let out a startled yelp as she found herself abruptly yanked back down onto the sofa. She blinked as she looked at House's hand, closed around hers, then met his eyes with a questioning look.

"No, you don't," he drawled lazily.

"House… really," Cuddy insisted, twisting her hand out of his and starting to rise again. "Some of us still have to work in the morning."

"You're the boss. You can go in whenever you want."

"No," Cuddy slowly corrected as she stood, "I'm the boss. I _have_ to practically _live_ there to do my job."

House just caught her hand again, pulling her back onto the couch, and slightly closer to him. He met her gaze, his own more honest and vulnerable than she was accustomed to seeing it. She waited as he opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, then finally admitted in a quiet, reluctant voice,

"I… don't want you to go. Yet. I…"

He hesitated, looking away, and Cuddy felt a pang of mingled sympathy and guilt when she realized that House simply did not want to be alone. Her face was mere inches from his, and it was impossible to miss the fear rising in his eyes again.

"House," she gently murmured, raising a hand to his cheek, "you're perfectly safe here. There's a guard outside…"

"Great. I don't care." House shrugged, meeting her eyes again as he stated with unusual honesty, "I want _you_ to stay."


	31. Chapter 31

Cuddy knew that she had to work the next morning

1Cuddy knew that she had to work the next morning. As it was, she wasn't going to get enough sleep, and the day ahead would be a difficult one. She knew that the smart, responsible thing to do in this situation was to give House a firm but gentle _no_ and make her way out of his apartment.

Which was, of course, impossible to do while looking into those huge, pleading blue eyes.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, her tone already carrying a note of resignation to her fate.

"House…"

"Yes, this _is_ a house," he replied. "A perfectly good, comfortable house, in which you should stay just a _little_ while longer." The teasing tone vanished, his voice softening to a low rumble as he persisted. "Please, Cuddy. I want you to stay with me… just for a little while…"

Suddenly, there was a suggestion, a promise in his tone that set off a warning in her mind – a warning that was almost drowned out by a sense of eager anticipation. Her heartbeat quickened, and Cuddy found that though she was sure she should, she couldn't bring herself to look away from the honest intensity of House's eyes.

Caught in the throes of indecision, Cuddy unconsciously bit the side of her lip, an uncertain frown creasing her brow. Her stomach lurched, not unpleasantly, as House's gaze flickered from her eyes to her mouth, the ever-observant diagnostician not missing the telling gesture.

Or maybe… there was another reason why he was suddenly fixated on her mouth…

Cuddy was not surprised to find his mouth suddenly on hers, tentatively searching in a tender, thorough kiss. Still she froze, unsure how to react at first – before melting into the kiss, her hands sliding to his waist, drawing him closer as she responded to his advances.

Each instantly fell into the rhythm they had established so many years ago. The give and take they constantly fought to duplicate in every other area of their relationship came so easily to them here. Cuddy shifted closer to House, deepening the kiss, encouraged when he yielded to her efforts, falling back on the couch and pulling her down with him, on top of him.

Alarm bells suddenly sounded in Cuddy's head when she realized the position she was in, and she opened her eyes, staring down at House in stunned dismay and horrified guilt. When he realized she had stopped kissing, he opened his eyes as well, just as she drew away completely, sitting up on the sofa, her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, her voice low and embarrassed. "House, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking…kissing you, now, with… with everything…"

House slowly sat up, a little breathless, watching her closely with mingled frustration, disappointment, and suspicion in his eyes. "In case you didn't notice," he reminded her, his sharp, questioning eyes searching her face, "_I_ kissed _you_."

"I kissed _back_." She ran a shaking hand through her hair, smoothing it back self-consciously, her eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but at House.

"Yeah." House nodded slowly, his words even and exaggeratedly patient. "And I liked it. You could even do it again, if you want."

"No." Cuddy shook her head, finally meeting his eyes, willing him to understand. "No, I really couldn't. House… there are a dozen different ways in which it would be so incredibly wrong of me to do this, to… to take advantage of you like that…"

"_Take advantage_ of me?" he echoed in disbelief. "I _instigated_…"

"You're not yourself right now, House," Cuddy insisted. "You've been drinking, and things lately have been so… so hard, and… I'm your _boss_, House. This is just… so inappropriate in so many ways…"

"Cuddy," House persisted, edging across the couch, closer to her, "do you think any of that matters to me right now?" His voice was low, enticing and pleading at the same time. "You're right. Things _have_ been hard. But… you said… you were my friend. Right?"

Cuddy nodded slowly, cautiously, with an uncertain grimace. "I am."

House returned her nod, holding her gaze. "Well, that's who I need right now. Not Cuddy, my boss. _Lisa_… my _friend_. I can't remember the last time I felt this… _alone_. I need _you_… Lisa."

She stared at him, eyes wide and incredulous, barely daring to believe that he was serious – and yet, there was no mockery visible in his expression. It seemed so unusual for House to be so open, so vulnerable, with anyone… and yet, it was difficult to resist the earnest invitation in his eyes.

When he leaned in to kiss her again, she did not pull away… and within a moment, she was returning his kiss, her right hand raised to run through his hair, pulling him in closer, her mouth searching his. Her left hand came to rest at his waist, unconsciously working the hem of his shirt free from his jeans, and a moment later her other hand followed suit.

House broke the kiss for breath, his forehead leaning against hers as his hands moved to cover hers, guiding them. The feeling of his warm, rough hands on hers was so intimate, so overwhelming, that Cuddy's misgivings faded completely into the background of her thoughts, and she felt herself on the verge of giving in completely to their mutual desires.

And she _might have_ given in – had House not felt the need to open his mouth.

"Not taking advantage when I want to be taken advantage of, is it?" A triumphant grin touched his lips as he gasped out the words between breaths. "Go ahead." He shrugged slightly. "Take advantage of me in my weakened state. Here I am… all… needy and vulnerable and intoxicated… and all yours…" He looked up at her, dark blue eyes sparkling with mingled mischief and desire. "I kinda like it."

Cuddy was not amused.

Disgusted, horrified, she pushed him away from her, scrambling to her feet and straightening her blouse self-consciously. "House!" she yelped in frustration and dismay. "You think that's… what? _Sexy_? It's _not_! You think I _want_ to take advantage of you? To… to _use_ you?"

"Cuddy… _what_?" House held up both hands in a questioning gesture, seeming genuinely lost as to what he had said wrong.

"I don't know what I was thinking," Cuddy muttered, snatching up her purse from beside the couch, pacing quickly through the room in search of her cell phone, before spotting it on the coffee table. "This is wrong. I shouldn't be here. And _you_…" She pointed an accusing finger in his direction as she crossed the room. "…you _manipulated_ me! You made me think you needed a friend! Made me think you wanted…"

She stopped talking, closing her eyes, then relenting slightly with a sigh in front of the coffee table as she reached down for her phone. "…you're not to blame, here. I should have known better than to…"

Her words broke off abruptly when House snatched up her cell phone before she could touch it, placing it behind his back with one hand as he caught her wrist with the other, holding her in place when she tried to jerk indignantly away from him.

"Cuddy, it was a joke! Cuddy… would you stop for a second and _listen_ to me?"

Reluctant and sullen, she stopped, her arm tense in his grasp, ready to bolt at the next word if necessary. House was silent, patiently waiting for her attention, until at last she returned her furious, confused eyes to his.

"I was teasing. I didn't mean…" House's voice trailed off with a sigh, as he looked away and shook his head, before meeting her eyes again and making a slow, deliberate show of releasing her arm. "_Please_," he said, his voice soft and serious. "Please… don't go."

When she didn't make a move toward the door – yet – House's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he looked away again, lips parted, searching for words. "I… I'm an ass, Cuddy, you know that. Even when I'm… not trying to be. I don't think I know how to be anything else. But…"

He looked up at her again, and Cuddy felt her resolve melting at the imploring look in his eyes. "…I wasn't manipulating you. I meant what I said. I _do_ need a friend – need _you _– here with me tonight."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, her expression dubious as she held his gaze. "No more crap about me taking advantage of you."

House shook his head in the slow, obedient fashion of a little boy, and Cuddy had to suppress a grin. "And no more making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers."

"Of course not," House agreed without hesitation. "I can make out a _lot_ better than a teenager…"

"_House_…"

"Okay, okay," House sighed, sounding disappointed.

Cuddy didn't admit it, but she felt a little disappointed herself. Still, she knew it was for the best. House was not completely in control of his emotions at the moment, for various reasons.

_If he still wants you later, when all this is over… that'd be a different story… but for now… you can't let it happen…_ she told herself sternly. _You have to be the responsible one tonight, for both of you…_

And she was.

They sat close together on the couch, but House made no further attempts to kiss her, no attempt to initiate any more contact than her hand resting on top of his. Casual conversation punctuated the inane programming that seemed to be all that was on at nearly midnight.

About half an hour after the casual conversation died out, Cuddy found herself drifting in and out of sleep. At one point, she felt a light pressure on her shoulder, and turned sleepy eyes in House's direction. An affectionate smile touched her lips when she realized that the pressure she felt was his head on her shoulder. She wrapped a gentle arm around his shoulders, easing him up a little as she tried to wake him.

"House," she croaked out sleepily, shaking him slightly. "House… come on, you need to wake up and go to bed."

He groaned an unintelligible protest, frowning as she pushed him back a little, and his head lost its comfortable pillow.

"Come on, get up," she prodded, sitting forward on the couch and throwing his arm across her shoulders. "I'll help you… come on, House…"

Unusually compliant, he allowed her to help him to his feet, and guide him, still mostly asleep, toward his bedroom. Cuddy noticed with some concern that his limp was quite pronounced, and he winced at the soreness from his various bruises and other injuries.

She pulled back the blankets on his bed, then helped him to lie down. She thought nothing of it as she took off his shoes and socks, then helped him out of his jeans. The doctor in her simply took over, looking at it as assisting a patient, rather than anything of a sexual nature. She managed to get his shirt off with some difficulty, and pulled his blanket up around his shoulders.

House, for his part, seemed barely aware of what was happening at all… until she moved to leave.

A weak, flailing hand shot out from beneath the covers, blindly searching until it found her hand.

"Stay," he mumbled, without opening his eyes. "Don't go… Just… stay here."

Cuddy hesitated, glancing toward the door. House was almost asleep. It would probably be safe for her to go home. But he had seemed so anxious, so unwilling to be alone… An unpleasant image filled her mind, of House awakening in the middle of the night, to find that she had left him alone, with nothing for company but his own fears and memories.

With a defeated sigh, Cuddy squeezed his hand gently. "Okay," she relented, though she wasn't sure he was still awake to hear her. She carefully disentangled her hand from his, heading back toward the living room.

"Where're you going?" House asked sleepily, raising his head and looking blearily up at her. The insecurity and apprehension she saw in his eyes only served to reinforce her decision.

"I'm just locking the door. I'll be right back," she assured him.

Satisfied that the door was securely locked for the night, Cuddy picked up House's cane from beside the couch, and his pills from the coffee table, making sure both were within easy reach on his side of the bed before going around to the other side. She took a throw blanket from the back of the chair across from his bed, stopping at the side of the bed to kick her shoes off.

Careful not to disturb House's injuries, she lay down on the bed, on top of the blankets, covering herself with the throw. House let out a muffled, whimpering sound, shifting backward slightly toward her, and Cuddy instinctively placed a soothing arm around him, nestling in close behind him.

"Shhh," she murmured, closing her eyes, allowing her weary body to give in to the sleep that was overtaking her. "I'm right here... Go to sleep…"

He mumbled something contentedly before drifting off again, but Cuddy didn't hear it.

She was already asleep.

Across town, in a part of town where no one would have expected to find him, Wilson was far from sleep. He had spent the previous night in a reasonably nice hotel – but then, paranoia took hold, and he decided he needed to be in a place where he could pay with cash, and therefore not be traced.

Of course, that severely limited the quality of the rooms he could rent.

The room was dark, except for the glow of a neon sign outside his window, glowing red and green lights alternating in patterns against the wall. Wilson stared up at the ceiling, his mind lost in dark thoughts of vengeance, retribution for all he had lost.

As he silently planned his revenge, his mouth twisted into a cold, vicious smile, as his hands played slowly over the smooth, shiny surface of the item he had purchased that afternoon. His fingertips caressed it, becoming familiar with its contours as he allowed his mind to envision the ways in which he would use it, and how he would go about seeing that he had a _chance _to use it.

Gradually an idea took shape in his mind, and his worries began to fade away.

Finally, satisfied with his plan of action, Wilson set the gun aside on the night table, then settled down onto the sagging mattress, pulling the blankets up over himself and getting ready to sleep, a smile on his face.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.


	32. Chapter 32

Quiet clinking sounds from his kitchen drew House from sleep the next morning

Quiet clinking sounds from his kitchen drew House from sleep the next morning.

He had not drunk enough the previous night to cause a hangover, but his head still felt a little fuzzy and heavy as he raised it from the pillow, eyes squinting against the bright sunlight pouring through his bedroom window.

He lay there for a few minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. Strangely, the clinking from the kitchen didn't bother him. A quick glance at the clock told him that Cuddy would be getting ready for work, and the smell of fresh coffee was similarly reassuring.

He highly doubted that Wilson would take time out to brew a pot before carrying out his vengeance.

He sat up slowly, grimacing at the pain that accompanied the effort, as memories of the previous night came flooding back – dinner and drinks with Cuddy, followed by television on his couch with Cuddy, followed by… kissing… with Cuddy.

As he remembered the encounter, House winced at the way she had ultimately rejected his advances. His face flushed with embarrassment as he remembered practically begging her to stay, when she was clearly not interested in him – not in the same way he was interested in her, anyway.

But – she had stayed.

House felt a warm rush of gratitude as he thought of the comfortable, secure feeling of her body beside his, her arm draped around him in a gesture of protective reassurance. He looked toward the open bedroom doorway, then rose to his feet and headed out into the kitchen.

Cuddy gave him a surprised smile as she finished rinsing out the coffee cup she had used and placed it in the draining pan.

"Coffee?" she offered, taking a second cup from the cupboard and filling it without waiting for his response.

House was pleasantly surprised to see that she seemed completely comfortable with him, not nervous or awkward about the events of the night before – or if she was uncomfortable, she was hiding it well. Either way, it served to make House feel more at ease and less embarrassed about his own needy behavior.

"Please." House nodded gratefully as she set the cup down in front of him. "Thanks."

Ordinarily he avoided such pleasantries, but, well… Cuddy deserved them.

She touched his shoulder in a brief, uncharacteristic show of affection as she gave him his coffee, and House glanced up at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. The simple gesture made it clear that something had changed between them.

House just wasn't quite sure what.

"I've got to go," she informed him. "You can have a few days if you'd like, just to rest and recover a little…"

"Give me until noon."

Cuddy blinked, surprised. "Are you sure you're feeling up to it?" she cautiously asked him. "Because you really don't have to. You don't have a case right now, and…"

"Thanks for the concern," he replied with a tolerant smirk, "but I'll be fine, Cuddy. If I sit around this apartment, I'll go stir crazy. I'll be in my office in a few hours."

"Well… all right," Cuddy reluctantly agreed with a weary sigh. She knew better than to think she could stop him, if his mind was set on going. Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, she headed toward the door. "See you later… unless you change your mind." Her tone suggested that she was hoping he would, for his own sake.

Once Cuddy left, House finished his coffee and headed for the bathroom to take a shower. He took his time getting ready for work – in spite of his determination to be there, he was grateful for the freedom and leisure that came with not being required to do so. Once he was dressed and ready to go, he drank another cup of coffee in front of the television, waiting until the clock read ten to grab his jacket and cane and head for the door.

Startled, he jumped as he stepped through the doorway to find a large, uniformed man standing outside his door – and then remembered the guard Cuddy had hired to watch his apartment. Of course, this was a different guard from the one who had been there the night before. This man seemed fresh and alert, as if just beginning his shift for the day.

"Good morning, Dr. House," the guard said with a friendly smile and nod.

Annoyed with himself over his fearful reaction, House didn't acknowledge the man as he headed toward the street. After checking the door to his apartment to be sure it was locked, the guard followed him toward his car. House turned to face the man with an angry, demanding glare.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The guard shrugged apologetically. "My job, Dr. House. Dr. Cuddy instructed that I was to accompany you to the hospital and make sure you get there safely."

House scoffed. "Good luck, since I don't intend to let you into my car."

The guard was unperturbed by House's irritation, and just shrugged again, nodding toward the street. House grudgingly turned to see a dark blue sedan parked in the spot next to his.

"That's okay," the guard explained in a mild, patient tone. "I have my own car. I'll just follow you in, to make sure you get there safely."

House's fist clenched and unclenched at his side as he fought back his frustration at Cuddy's over-protective gesture. On a cognitive level, he knew that it was a wise measure to take, ensuring that he would be safe from any attempt Wilson might make to get to him; still, he was unaccustomed to being coddled.

"Fine," he replied at last, unlocking his car and getting in. He winked at the guard through his lowered window as he turned on the engine before gunning it and peeling out into the street.

"Try to keep up."

Cuddy met him near the door of the hospital, glancing behind him with exasperation.

"Where's the guard?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

House looked up toward the ceiling thoughtfully, pretending to consider the question. "Probably… somewhere back around Fifth and Main." He met her eyes, humor replaced by anger in his voice as he declared, "I don't need a babysitter, Cuddy."

"Well then it's a good thing I didn't give you one," she countered, not backing down. "What you _do_ need is protection. Unless you're a total idiot, you have to see that."

"Yeah, Wilson's going to attack me in broad daylight in the middle of the street. He's gonna drag me out of my locked car at the first red light I stop at." His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I don't need to be followed like some kind of child who doesn't have the good sense to watch out for himself."

"House, I know you don't like it," Cuddy sighed, relenting slightly. "But this is how it has to be for now – just until Wilson is caught."

House _didn't_ like it, but there was nothing he could do about it – and he knew, despite his annoyance, that Cuddy was right.

The rest of the day only served to increase his annoyance, and to make him regret his stubborn insistence on going to work at all. Cuddy kept a guard posted outside his office all day. Every time he turned around, a member of the security staff was within his sight. Cuddy was determined to ensure his safety – and it was driving him out of his mind.

By the end of the day, he was ready to beat the guards over their heads with his cane – simply for existing. They hadn't hindered his work or interrupted his differentials or even annoyed him with anything other than their presence. It was just the idea of being constantly followed, looked after as if he were a helpless child, that frustrated House.

At the end of the day, he made his way to his car, trying to hide his irritation at the presence of the armed man behind him, suppressing a sigh as the guard got into the car parked beside his. Furious and exasperated, House quickly got into his car, slamming the door hard as he started the engine and driving out of his parking spot without hesitation.

House waited until he had barely enough room to pull out before slamming his foot down on the gas and speeding out onto the road, smiling with satisfaction that the guard would have to wait for a long string of oncoming cars to pass before he could follow. His jaw set with stubborn determination, House turned down a side street, deciding to take the back way. It was faster, and would, he hoped, keep his shadow from trailing him all the way there.

Of course, the guard would arrive at his apartment within minutes of his own arrival, so there was really nothing to worry about. It was just House's way of passing along some of his irritation. He smiled into the rearview mirror with satisfaction when, after a few minutes, he saw no sign of the guard.

A moment later, the smile froze, as House felt something cold pressed against the side of his throat, and a firm, familiar hand closed around his upper arm, holding him in place.

"Smooth, House," Wilson sneered softly into his ear. "I knew you wouldn't be able to tolerate the guard detail for long. Thanks for taking the back way. And thanks for never getting that interior light fixed." House heard the smirk in his voice as it lowered to a menacing whisper. "Makes this _so_ much easier."

House felt the cold pressure of the gun tighter against his throat, pushing his head back slightly. His stomach lurched as Wilson added in a soft tone of exaggerated patience, "If you try anything, House… something stupid, like wrestling the gun away from me or driving toward the police station… I'll kill you. Even if that means killing myself in the process. Because I think you know I'd rather die than go to prison."

House's mind raced as he turned onto his street, swallowing hard in a vain attempt to force moisture into his mouth. "Wilson," he began cautiously, "nobody said anything about going to prison. If you want to talk, you don't need the…"

His words fell away at the ominous click of the revolver. Wilson slid his free hand up to grip House's hair, slowly pulling his head back against the headrest. "House…" He spoke slowly, his voice low and familiar, almost affectionate. "…I know you. And what's more… I know your _bullshit_ when I hear it. You don't want to _talk_," he sneered derisively. "And _I_ don't want you to talk. So how about you keep us both happy, and keep your mouth shut until we get to your apartment… so I don't have to kill us both before then."

When House parked the car, he saw no sign of the guard he had so successfully evaded.

Too successfully.

Wilson held out his hand for the car keys, making sure he had both them and House's cane from between the front seats, before finally moving the gun and getting out of the car. He opened House's door, grabbing House's arm and jerking him roughly out of the car, slamming him against it and moving in close to press the gun hard against his ribcage.

"You don't move, you don't speak, don't make a sound unless I tell you to. Understood?"

House nodded, eyes closed momentarily before Wilson jerked him away from the car. The younger man maintained a firm grip on his arm as he half-supported, half-dragged him toward the apartment, the gun still pressed firmly into House's side. Outside his door, there was no guard. House realized with a sinking heart that the man he had evaded on the highway was probably the same guard who should be setting up post outside his door for the night.

Wilson swiftly unlocked the door with the confiscated keys, shoved House roughly inside, and quickly locked the door again.

Without his cane, thrown off balance by Wilson's harsh shove, House fell to the floor beside the couch. He gripped the armrest, struggling to pull himself to his feet, when he sensed Wilson come up close behind him, and felt the cool steel muzzle of the gun against the back of his head.

He froze, not daring to move as he felt Wilson's steadying hand on his shoulder, pulling his body back so that the gun pushed his head downward, until his forehead rested against the arm of the couch.

He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Wilson was going to pull the trigger, going to _kill_ him, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.

"Wilson," he whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "Wilson… don't…"

Wilson's voice was cold, pitiless, when he replied softly, "Why the hell not?"

House opened his mouth to respond, though he had no idea what he could say. His mind filled with a thousand images, tarnished and damaged by the current state of their relationship, but still sweet enough in his memory to bring tears to his eyes, tears that had nothing to do with the fear of pain or death. He wasn't sure if what he was going to say would help or hurt – wasn't really sure what he was going to say at all – but he knew that he was _going_ to say it, regardless of Wilson's threats.

Before House could speak, a sudden, sharp knocking on the door drew Wilson's attention away from him momentarily. As the gun moved, House raised his head, glancing up toward the door uncertainly, then shifting off his knees and onto his legs so that he was facing the door. He looked up warily at Wilson, who was edging toward the door, gun aimed in its direction now, as an urgent, muffled voice reached their ears through the door, and the handle shook with the attempt to turn it.

"Dr. House! Dr. House, are you all right?"


	33. Chapter 33

"Dr

"Dr. House? Are you there?"

House glanced anxiously between Wilson and the closed door that separated him from the concerned voice on the other side – and possibly his only source of help in this potentially fatal situation. Wilson aimed the gun at the door in a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes locked on House in a silent warning, before focusing on the door again. He bit his lip nervously, clearly uncertain what course of action he should take.

"Wilson…" House kept his voice barely over a whisper, wanting it to be clear that his motive was not to draw the attention of the guard on the other side of the door. "Wilson… you don't have to do this. Put the gun away… right now… and you're just here visiting me. That's all. No one ever has to know any different. But if you go the other direction… if you hurt that man on the other side of that door… you can't take it back, Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson's face bore a tight, ironic smile. "Problem is… I've already done a couple of things I can't take back. Haven't I?"

House studied Wilson's expression, trying to gauge the emotions behind his words. "You _can_ take them back, Wilson. If you want to."

Wilson looked at House again, and the coldness in his eyes sent a chill down House's spine.

"What if I _don't_ want to?"

As he spoke, Wilson abruptly turned and stalked toward House, pressing the gun to his temple again, smiling when House flinched, bracing himself for the shot. Instead, Wilson roughly jerked him to his feet, putting a harsh hand to House's throat to smother his muffled cry of pain.

Leaning in close, Wilson spoke softly into House's ear, his voice dripping with menace. "Keep your mouth shut. Don't do anything stupid. And come with me."

Keeping one hand locked around House's throat, the other holding the gun to his side, Wilson dragged House toward the door.

Dr. Gregory House had proven to be the most difficult client that Brent Wray had ever had to guard.

Throughout the afternoon, the cranky, sullen doctor had done everything in his power to avoid Brent, doing his best to ensure that his job – keeping him safe – was impossible. It was almost enough to make Brent think about giving up. If the man _wanted_ to get hurt or killed by whoever it was that was after him – fine. That was his choice.

Except that it wasn't.

Dr. Cuddy was signing the checks, so technically it was _her_ call.

Still, in the ten years Brent had been doing this job, he had never before had the difficult task of guarding someone who didn't want to be guarded. And, considering what he had been told of Dr. House's situation, it seemed that he should _want_ to have the constant accompaniment of an armed guard at his disposal. This other doctor that was after him, James Wilson, sounded very dangerous, and House was supposedly some kind of medical genius.

It had infuriated Brent, but not surprised him a bit, when House had deliberately evaded him on the road, preventing him from following him. When he had arrived outside House's apartment, he had been relieved to see the doctor's car parked in front of it – and then, his relief turned to anger.

_For a genius,_ Brent had observed irritably as he tried to catch up with the elusive Dr. House on the highway, _he can be pretty stupid._

Frustrated with his impossible charge, the security guard pounded on the door.

When House didn't answer at all after several attempts to get his attention, however, Brent actually began to worry. Although he assumed that House was just being difficult, Brent's anger and irritation were beginning to mingle with an uneasy apprehension.

_What if something _is_ wrong?_

"Dr. House! Dr. House, if you're there, would you just answer the damn…"

The door opened abruptly, an impatient-looking House appearing in the doorway.

"…door." Brent sighed before narrowing his eyes, glaring at the sullen man before him, who didn't even have the good graces to try to appear apologetic. "Dr. House – are you out of your mind? You can't just… just run off and leave me like that! What if something had happened, and there was no one here to help you?"

House's eyes went impossibly wide in an expression of mock horror. "My God, you're right! What if I needed to use the _bathroom_ or something? How would I ever remember how without _you_ looking over my shoulder?"

After several hours already spent in the dubious company of the renowned Dr. House, Brent was not surprised by his hostility. He sighed again, relaxing now that the crisis had passed.

He would have to give Dr. Cuddy a call and let her know he'd found House all right. He'd called her after House had ditched him, unsure whether or not there was cause for alarm, and she had assured him that this was normal behavior for Dr. House. But she had asked him to contact her as soon as he caught up with him.

"Whatever. I get it. You want your privacy. I'm keeping you from having it. I'll just set up out here and leave you to your brooding…"

"Wait…"

Brent turned back toward House, puzzled by the hesitant note in House's voice. As he looked closer, he thought he detected something beyond the mockery and frustration.

Fear.

"What is it?" he asked with a concerned frown. "Everything okay?"

House drew in a slow breath, letting it out all at once, shoulders slumping in defeat. "No. It's not. Can you… can you come in for a minute?"

Surprised by the rare display of vulnerability, puzzled by the request, and more than a little curious, Brandon nodded. "Sure. Of course."

House moved back to allow him in, and Brandon stepped through the doorway.

He was surprised to feel House's hand brush his arm a moment later… as well as by the slight pinprick sensation he felt an instant after that.

Surprised – but strangely, not alarmed.

No… one would have to be conscious to be alarmed.

It only took an instant to slip the needle into the guard's arm, an instant more to depress the syringe and pump the sedative into his system… and then, the man was slumping to the floor, unconscious. House did his best to ease his fall, though he ended up on his knees on the floor in the process. He couldn't help feeling a little bit guilty for deceiving someone who was only there to protect him in the first place.

Still… the sedative was better than Wilson's bullet.

"He's out."

House stated the truth unnecessarily, as he automatically checked the guard's vitals, trying to reassure himself that he would be all right. Behind him, Wilson closed and locked the door. Finally, he looked back up at Wilson, who was calmly watching his efforts, the gun trained on him still an ominous presence.

"So. You just… carry around a hypodermic sedative in your pocket? Just in case?"

Wilson smiled coldly. "Only when I think I might need it." He shrugged. "I'll just have to make do without it." He stepped closer, pressing the gun to House's temple, using it to push his head uncomfortably to the side as he crouched beside him. "Guess you'll just have to feel every little thing now, won't you?"

House swallowed hard, wary eyes locked onto Wilson's as he asked quietly, calmly, "What are you going to do to me?"

Wilson let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Really, House. You're the genius diagnostician… and you need me to tell you how this ends?"

House's stomach lurched, but he kept his voice low, even. "It doesn't have to. End that way."

"You still don't get it, do you?" Wilson straightened, moving the gun, but House didn't dare relax enough to move an inch. "For once in this stupid, dysfunctional, messed-up relationship – this is about what _I_ want." He struck House a brutal blow across the face with the pistol, smiling as House fell backward under the force of the blow. "And I _want_ it to end that way."

House struggled to right himself, dragging himself on his hands toward the sofa in an effort to somehow get to his feet. Wilson easily beat him there, picking up the cane he had propped against the side of the sofa and slamming it into the arm of the sofa just as House reached out to grasp it and pull himself up.

House drew his hand back just in time to avoid a painful smack, looking up at Wilson through solemn, searching eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"In spite of all the evidence that I'm telling the truth?" Wilson smirked, his tone patronizing, pitying. "Really, House? That's not like you."

"Two months of evidence versus ten years plus evidence to the contrary. One kind of outweighs the other." House shrugged, his voice soft and pensive as he held Wilson's gaze. "And I can't believe you really want to do this."

Wilson laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. Abruptly the smile faded, as he brought the cane down hard across House's thigh, causing him to double over in agony, clutching the abused limb with both trembling hands. Wilson crouched in front of him, pushing his head back with the gun until their eyes met again. His voice was soft, barely audible over House's labored breathing.

"Believe me now, House?"

Cuddy was on the verge of panic.

Thirty minutes had passed since the guard had called her, reporting House's typically juvenile behavior. He knew she was worried about House's safety, knew she was the customer he needed to satisfy in order to get paid – and still, he had not called her back yet.

She was fairly certain that was cause enough for alarm.

When she called the guard back, the phone rang several times without being answered. She tried again a few minutes later, thinking that perhaps Brent had been dealing with House when she called the first time, but there was no answer the second time, either.

Or the third.

Or fourth.

_House is probably leading him on a wild goose chase around town,_ she told herself. _Playing his stupid little games, not considering for a second the effect it's having on the people who care about him – namely_ me.

She swallowed hard, staring down at her still, silent phone.

_Or maybe – something's actually happened. Is he hurt? What about Wilson? Maybe he needs me._

Giving up on the guard, she dialed House's number, and waited breathlessly as it began to ring.

By a blessed coincidence, Wilson's paranoia had driven him to check the door again, having thought he heard a strange sound outside, when House felt the vibration of his cell phone ringing in his pocket.

By a second blessed coincidence – his phone was set on silent.

Watching Wilson carefully, House slipped his hand into his pocket, quickly turning down the tiny dial on the side of his phone that controlled the volume of its speakers, before hitting the receive button to accept the call. He didn't want to take a chance on Wilson hearing the caller's voice.

He didn't dare take the phone from his pocket to try to get a glimpse at the screen. He was fairly certain it was Cuddy calling. She was probably waiting for the guard to call her, and when he hadn't, Cuddy was likely to be concerned enough to check up on him.

Also… no one else ever called him anymore.

He knew better than to think he could tell her what was going on – at least directly. However, if Cuddy could deduce from his silence, despite the fact that the phone had been answered, that something was wrong – it might be House's only hope of surviving.

If he was _really_ lucky, she might make out some of their conversation, even through the pocket of his jeans. That would be even better.

As Wilson turned around to face him again, House watched him cautiously, secretly doing a series of mental calculations. If Cuddy realized what was going on, and contacted the authorities in the next few minutes, it would take them another ten minutes or so to get to his apartment.

If he could just keep Wilson talking, keep him from reaching the inevitable end of this confrontation for as long as possible… there was a chance that he _might_ get out of this.

_Come on, Cuddy… _Please _pick up on what's going on here… Please get it… and get help..._


	34. Chapter 34

"Just slow down for a minute and think about what you're doing

"Just slow down for a minute and think about what you're doing."

House kept his voice quiet and calm, wary eyes watching Wilson closely as he paced back and forth in front of him with shaky, frenetic steps. House's gaze shifted between Wilson's taut, anxious expression and the gun held tightly in his white-knuckled hand, as he tried to calm him, to talk him back to a place of reason and sanity.

"If you do this," House continued slowly, "you can't come back. You shoot somebody, and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison, or on the run, or maybe in some foreign country where your first language is somewhere around third or fourth. Good luck with that."

"Yeah," Wilson sneered, stopping his pacing as he turned toward House, the gun waving dangerously as he gestured wildly with his hands. "Too bad I'm not brilliant enough to speak seven languages like you, right, House?" He rolled his eyes with a cold, bitter laugh as he added, "Freakin' genius, and the thing you're best at is destroying everything and everyone around you. I found that out first hand when you ruined my life."

"I didn't ruin your life, Wilson," House insisted, boldly meeting Wilson's eyes, his voice quiet and even.

"Please," Wilson scoffed. "You've destroyed every relationship I've had since I've known you. You've nearly cost me my career – even my clean criminal record – more than once…"

"Yeah, but apparently those things don't mean that much to you anyway." House shrugged, his tone scathing, defiant. "Do they? Let's talk about the things that _do_ still matter to you." He paused for a moment, meeting Wilson's eyes in a clear challenge. "Amber's death was an accident. I didn't kill her."

Wilson's face flushed with rage, and he took a threatening step closer to House, pointing the gun at him again.

"Don't you _dare… speak her name_!"

"Why not?" House snapped back, well aware that it would be wiser to hold his tongue, but unable to hold back the accusation in his voice. "_Somebody_ ought to! She's what this is all about – right?"

Wilson's voice was warning, trembling with rage. "Shut up, House…"

"Because I'm starting to forget. You haven't mentioned her in a month!"

"_Shut up_!"

Wilson came at him in a rush, slamming the pistol down across House's face and knocking his head back against the couch behind him. House struggled against the blinding flashes of light and color that obscured his vision, raising a hand to his swollen, bleeding mouth. Before he could recover, Wilson had grabbed his collar with one hand, pressing the gun to his head with the other.

"That's it," he hissed in a furious whisper. "We're done."

House flinched at the click of the revolver, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the shot, certain that Wilson was right.

_It's over… I'm dead…_

A sound from across the room drew Wilson's attention abruptly away from him, and House opened his eyes in surprise as he felt the gun removed from his head. He looked up to see that Wilson had turned his back to him and was staring down at the guard on the floor, who was stirring slightly, a low moan reverberating from his throat.

"Shit." Wilson turned back toward House with accusing eyes. "That sedative should have had him out for hours."

House shrugged. "Don't ask _me_. _I_ didn't prepare the dosage."

Wilson swore again under his breath, hurrying toward the fallen guard, who was gradually returning to consciousness. Wilson crouched beside him, his hands scrabbling frantically along the floor where House had injected the guard, searching for the discarded needle. Finally he found it, raising it to find that it was still more than half full.

"You're so dead, House," he muttered without turning as he tried to steady his hands, preparing to inject the rest of the clear fluid into the guard's arm before he awakened.

"Yeah," House scoffed quietly. "More dead than I already was?"

Wilson didn't answer, his mouth set in a taut line as he depressed the plunger on the syringe, then removed the needle from the guard's arm. He watched anxiously as the semi-conscious man drifted back into unconsciousness, before tossing the needle down again and rising to his feet, shoulders slumping with relief.

"Oh, trust me, House," he replied at last, his voice low and dark. "I can make this a lot worse for you than it was already gonna be…"

His voice trailed off as he turned to face House, and his eyes went wide in surprise at the sight that met his eyes. The drawer in the endtable beside the couch was open, empty, and House was still crouched against the side of the couch – but in the few moments it had taken Wilson to deal with the guard, something vital had changed.

House had taken his own gun from the drawer where he kept it – and it was trained steadily on Wilson. House's mouth twisted upward into a grim, humorless smile, eyes solemn and certain as he met Wilson's gaze.

"Can you?" he challenged softly. "I'm starting to doubt that."

"Hello? _House_?"

Cuddy's voice was eager, anxious, as she heard the click as House's phone was answered. But relief was swiftly replaced by disappointment when only silence met her words.

"_House_!"

Finally, she let out a heavy sigh, removing the phone from her ear and glaring at the screen.

_You want to avoid me, House? When I'm the only one on your side right now? Fine!_

She was about to hang up, when she caught the muffled sound of voices on the other line. She put the phone back to her ear, listening closely, but the words were muffled, too quiet to make out.

The voices, however, were unmistakably familiar to her.

House – and Wilson.

As she listened, Wilson's voice rose to an almost frantic pitch, and the dangerous level of fury she heard in it made her stomach drop. She listened closely, focusing her attention on the voices to try to make out the words. Finally, she thought she could hear House's voice, slow and clear and even, and the words he spoke sent a shiver down her spine.

"… _you can't come back. You shoot someone, and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison…"_

_Wilson's got a_ gun? _God_… House!

Her hands trembling, Cuddy quickly disconnected the call, and dialed the number for the police.

_Come on, House… Keep him talking… Help is on the way…_

Wilson was startled for a moment, but then his expression faded into a pitying smile as he took a slow step closer to his intended victim. "House… do you really think you can shoot me?" He shook his head sadly. "I don't think you can."

House's hands, his voice, never wavered, as he kept the gun aimed steadily on Wilson. "I think you're seriously underestimating my instinct for self-preservation."

Wilson let out a quiet huff of laughter, rolling his eyes as he replied with clear sarcasm, "In spite of all the clear and undeniable evidence as to just how strong that instinct is. Right. No. That's not what I meant." He paused, his smile fading as he explained, "I emptied that gun weeks ago."

House did not miss a beat, replying immediately. "I know. I found it unloaded last week. That's when I knew I'd better make sure it was loaded from then on."

Wilson was still slowly drawing nearer to House, the gun still aimed at his head, apparently unbothered by House's words. He shook his head, something resembling a twisted affection in his eyes.

"I still don't think you can do it," he observed softly. "I don't care anymore whether you live or die. You know that." He was quiet a moment before adding, "Unfortunately, I don't think you can say the same. You care too much, House. You can't shoot me."

"I will," House insisted. "If you come any closer."

Despite House's calm threat, Wilson kept moving forward. He was only a few short yards away from House by now, and did not seem inclined to stop.

"Go ahead, House," he said in a voice barely over a whisper, a cold smile on his lips. "Shoot me. Kill me." He raised his eyebrows in a challenge. "Can you?"

House steadied his grip on the gun with both hands, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he didn't answer.

"That's what's so pathetic about all of this," Wilson sneered as he continued to edge closer to House. "You're still so desperate to _fix_ things – to make it like it was before. But that's never going to happen, House. Those days are _over_. But you still think of me as all you've got – so you can't do it." Wilson shrugged, a mocking smile rising to his lips. "You might as well turn that gun on yourself – because you have nothing left to live for. I know you can't kill _me_ – but you've been slowly killing _yourself_ for years now. Why don't you just do us both a favor and end it the easy way?"

House flinched at the cruel words, undeniably hurt by Wilson's calloused, vicious suggestions. He didn't lower his gun, didn't look away – but he didn't fire, either. His voice was low, hoarse with unshed tears, as he replied haltingly.

"You don't know it right now, Wilson… but if this goes down like you want it to… you won't have anything left, either. You lost somebody – yeah. That's sad. But instead of getting over it and moving on with your life like you should have, you spent the next few months systematically destroying everything else in your life that was worth anything."

House was aware that Wilson was still advancing, but he just kept talking, keeping the gun trained on Wilson, but unable to bring himself to pull the trigger.

"You don't think I'll shoot you, because you're all I've got left… and if you shoot me, you lose everything, too," House continued. "So the way I see it – in about thirty seconds, either way this goes, one of us is going to lose everything…"

He was quiet a moment, swallowing hard. Wilson was only a couple of feet away now. His voice was soft, heavy with regret and tragic affection when he finally spoke again.

"… and I care too much to let it be you."

Wilson's eyes widened as he recognized something in House's eyes, and saw the older man's finger tighten on the trigger of the gun in his hand. Wilson's hand shot out to slam his gun into House's hands, forcing him to release the weapon with a cry of pain, and sending the gun skittering across the floor and into the far wall.

Immediately House reached up to catch Wilson's hand, pushing it away from him. Wilson had the advantage of better leverage and greater strength, but House struggled against him as he tried to take aim again, both hands locking around Wilson's left hand to keep him from regaining his deadly aim.

Wilson's right hand shot out to backhand House, hard, and he fell back against the couch, but did not let go of Wilson's hand. He was desperate, fighting for both their lives, and determined despite his disadvantage to keep Wilson from accomplishing his deadly goal. House jerked downward on Wilson's hand as he fell, pulling the younger man off balance and onto his knees on the floor. Pressing his advantage, House yanked him closer to him, bringing the fight to a more even level.

For a few tense minutes, they struggled in near silence, no breath or strength to waste on words, their very lives at stake, grappling for control of the weapon in Wilson's hand. House struggled blindly, unable to see the gun or which way it was pointed, as the upper hand seemed to pass back and forth between them with each passing moment.

All at once, a deafening blast rang out in the quiet room, and both men froze.

House wasn't sure which of them had been shot at first. He blinked, eyes wide and shocked as he stared at the mirrored expression on Wilson's face. For an instant, he recognized their old familiarity in Wilson's eyes – that certainty that he knew exactly what Wilson was feeling without a word, and Wilson was reading him just as well.

The moment was larger, more intense and powerful than any of the conflict that had passed between them these past few weeks.

Breathless, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline, House forced himself to look down at the space between them. His stomach clenched with dread, and he knew that regardless of the outcome, there would be no relief. Either he was shot, and in too much shock to feel it yet, or he had shot Wilson.

House wasn't sure which option was worse.

His eyes gradually made sense of the gun in Wilson's hand, his own hands turning it back toward Wilson's stomach… the seeping red stain that was swiftly overtaking a large portion of Wilson's rumpled white dress shirt… the frighteningly pale appearance of Wilson's face as he sank back onto his knees, and then collapsed to the floor on his back, wide eyes staring in shock and disbelief.

House was barely aware of the distant pounding on the door of his apartment – too focused on the thunderous roar in his ears, the piercing ache in his chest as his heart shattered into a million bleeding fragments on the floor at his feet.


	35. Chapter 35

The pounding on House's front door gradually registered with him as he stared down in shock at the still form of his friend, lying there on the floor, his life's blood pulsing out onto the floor

The pounding on House's front door gradually registered with him as he stared down in shock at the still form of his friend, lying there, his life's blood pulsing out onto the floor. He slowly raised his eyes to the door, confused, just as it fell open under the battery of the police officers on the other side.

He looked back down at Wilson as the officers swarmed the room, taking in the scene. All at once, House remembered the gun which had fallen from Wilson's hand, and his stunned gaze shifted down to it.

_I shot him… I killed my best friend…_

Firm, efficient hands grasped House's shoulders, pulling him up off the floor and away from Wilson. Someone put his forgotten cane in his hand and helped him to the sofa, then tried to talk to him, asking him questions he couldn't quite comprehend.

_What happened? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?_

All he could see was the stunned expression on Wilson's face as the bullet had torn through his body. All he could hear were the voices of the officers across the room, discussing the situation as they checked the vital signs for both Wilson and the unconscious security guard.

"This one's unresponsive, but there's a steady pulse."

"Gunshot wound here… he's bleeding out pretty quickly…"

"He's still breathing…"

"I've got a pulse…"

"Request two ambulances. This one's pretty bad off. He needs a doctor…"

_Doctor… he needs a… _

Abruptly House snapped out of the stupor of shock that had engulfed him, shaking off the concerned hands of the officer seated beside him and struggling painfully to his feet. Despite the protests he heard behind him, House made his way determinedly toward Wilson. A tall, stocky man blocked his way, frowning.

"You need to give us room to work, sir…"

House's voice was ragged with exhaustion and pain, but his gaze was sharp, unyielding, as he insisted, "He needs a doctor, right? I'm a doctor. It's going to be at least ten minutes before an ambulance can get here from the nearest hospital. Let me do something. We have to get the bleeding stopped."

The officer reluctantly stepped back to allow House to pass, warily staying close at his side as House knelt beside Wilson, tearing off his own shirt and pressing it against the gaping wound, trying to staunch the frighteningly large amount of blood flowing from it.

He didn't let himself think about what had happened to cause the injury – not then. He had to focus on doing what he needed to do to save Wilson's life. He shut out the dark chorus of thoughts flooding his mind, automatically going into professional mode as he checked Wilson's pulse with his free hand. A sick wave of fear washed over him when he felt how weak it was.

_No, he can't die… This can't happen… I can't have _killed_ my best friend…_

When the paramedics arrived, there was a brief struggle as they tried to convince House to let them take over. His hands were clenched around the makeshift compress against Wilson's stomach, and he looked up at them through wild, fearful eyes, shaking his head as they tried to push his hands away.

"It's all right. We've got it," a young female EMT kindly assured him. "We can take it from here, Dr. House."

He was startled by the use of his name, and then realized that he vaguely recognized the girl. He had seen her at some point in the halls of PPTH.

Somehow, that knowledge was comforting.

Then, he felt a gentle hand on his arm, and looked up with surprise to see Cuddy kneeling beside him. He hadn't even noticed when she arrived; he had been too busy working on Wilson. She had simply waited close by, staying out of his way, just in case she was needed – which, now, she was.

She held his gaze intently as she reached to take his hand, removing it carefully from the compress he held. His hand was immediately replaced by the hand of a ready EMT, as Cuddy gently pulled him away from Wilson, his blood-soaked hands clasped firmly in hers.

"It's all right," she whispered. "They've got him. They'll take care of him. It's okay."

House's frantic gaze shifted uncertainly back toward Wilson, but Cuddy raised one hand to his cheek, shielding his eyes from the frightening scene and turning his gaze back toward her.

"House," she assured him softly, with a slow, emphatic nod. "It's all right."

His mouth worked with repressed emotion as he met her eyes, swallowing hard. "It's _Wilson_," he whispered, a wealth of meaning in the two simple words.

Cuddy's expression softened with understanding, as she replied with the same simple profundity. "I know."

She helped him back to the sofa, accompanied by a member of the medical team who insisted on checking him over, making sure he wasn't too badly injured. Cuddy sat beside him, holding his hands, providing emotional support and allowing the EMT to handle the brief medical examination.

House wasn't too badly injured, after all. His face was badly bruised from the pistol whipping Wilson had dealt him, and he was a bit battered and sore from the fight, but it was nothing Cuddy couldn't handle herself with a simple first aid kit. House refused the EMT's suggestion that he should go with them to the hospital and get checked out.

"I'm his doctor," Cuddy quietly informed her with a reassuring smile. "I'll take care of it."

Within a few minutes, Wilson and the security guard were loaded into the back of two ambulances, and rushed away to the hospital. Cuddy followed the medical team out to the street, instructing them to call her with a status report as soon as possible, before returning to House's side. In her absence, a police officer had taken her seat on the sofa beside him, and was trying to get the story out of a rather shell-shocked, distracted House.

She sat on the coffee table across from him, reaching out a hand to rest on his knee in a silent display of support.

"Please, Dr. House, if you could just give me a minute…" The officer pressed for House's attention, as the doctor's vaguely bewildered eyes scanned the room, as if still trying to process everything that had happened in the last hour. "… I really just need you to tell me what happened here tonight. It won't take long, if you'll just give me your statement."

"House," Cuddy murmured, squeezing his leg gently, trying to get him to focus.

He looked at her, his gaze a little distant. He glanced between her and the police officer for a moment, before biting his lip and nodding once toward the officer, indicating his agreement.

"We've been looking for Dr. Wilson in connection with his first attack on you," the officer remarked. "And I know you had a security detail accompanying you. How did Dr. Wilson get into your apartment?"

House glanced guiltily toward Cuddy, drawing in a deep breath before launching into his halting, slightly distracted explanation. "He… was waiting for me in my car. I… must have lost the guard detail… somewhere on the way home. Anyway, I… I beat him here. Wilson… made me let him into the apartment. When the guard got here, Wilson… he… made me trick him into coming inside, and… and made me inject him with a sedative. I… I only gave him part of it. When he started to come to, Wilson realized what I'd done and went to give him the rest of it. That's when I… when I went for my gun."

"Was it your gun that was fired, Dr. House?" The officer's voice was quiet, serious.

House shook his head, glancing across the room at his weapon, just as another officer carefully picked it up and placed it into an evidence bag.

"No," he replied softly. "My gun wasn't loaded." He looked calmly at the officer questioning him, meeting his eyes before nodding toward his closet. "Papers are in a box on the top shelf of the closet. It's all official and documented – nice and legal."

The officer nodded, satisfied with his explanation. "So… you got to your weapon. What happened next?"

"I knew he wasn't going to be satisfied until I was dead. I thought – I thought maybe I could bluff my way out of it. But… he didn't believe I'd do it. He managed to… to get the gun away from me, and… and we fought… over his gun." House was quiet for a moment, blinking rapidly as he lowered his head, swallowing hard. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, stricken. "It just… went off. I didn't… didn't know at first… whether it was… was me or him, that'd been shot…"

The officer waited a moment for him to go on, then nodded slowly when it became apparent that he was finished. "It sounds like a clear case of self defense, Dr. House. I wouldn't worry too much. It was already a matter of public record that Dr. Wilson attacked you, and threatened your life on more than one occasion. We'll examine the evidence, but as long as everything you've told me is true, I don't think you'll have much to worry about."

House nodded once, looking away.

"Thank you." Cuddy gave the officer a polite, grateful smile, reaching out to take House's hand reassuringly in hers.

"One problem, though," the officer continued. "Your apartment's a crime scene, until we can finish gathering the evidence, and determine what charges are going to be issued, that sort of thing. Do you have someplace you can stay tonight?"

Thinking that he would get a hotel room, House started to nod.

"Yes, he does."

He looked at Cuddy in surprise at the certainty in her voice, and she returned his gaze with a soft smile. "Of course he does," she added, still addressing the officer, but with a softness and affection in her tone that House knew were intended for him.

"Good." The officer nodded as he rose to his feet. "You'll be safe tonight. Dr. Wilson's officially in custody. As soon as he's stable enough to be released from the hospital, he'll be going to jail. In the mean time, he'll be handcuffed to his bed at the hospital." The officer smiled. "He won't be doing anyone any more damage anytime soon."

"So… I'm free to go?" House asked uncertainly, a heavy weariness in his voice as he glanced up at the officer. "That's it?"

"We may have some other questions later, but yes. You can get some things together and go whenever you want."

"I'll take care of it."

Cuddy patted House's hand gently as she rose to her feet and headed for his bedroom. She quickly filled a duffel bag with the clothes he would need for the next day, his pajamas, shoes, and a toothbrush, and brought it out to the coffee table.

"Anything else?" she asked briskly as she smiled down at him.

House could tell that she was in full-on maternal mode, trying too hard to be cheerful and positive – but he appreciated the effort. He shook his head, steadying his hand on his cane as he rose stiffly to his feet.

"Let's just go now," he murmured, exhaustion evident in his voice. "Please."

The peaceful quiet of Cuddy's apartment was a blessed relief after the tension and terror of the past few hours. House sat, silent and subdued, on the edge of the bed in her guest bedroom, as she rifled through her cabinets for first aid supplies. A few moments later, she returned, kneeling on the bed beside him as she poured antiseptic onto a gauze pad.

"This might sting a little," she warned him as she placed a steadying hand on his chin, and then pressed the pad against a gash over his eye, left by Wilson's gun.

He let out a quiet hiss, grimacing at the burn of the cool liquid, and Cuddy's expression became sympathetic. "I know," she murmured soothingly. "Almost done." She repeated her actions on the other cuts on his face, before putting the antiseptic away and taking out a roll of bandages.

He gave her a small, sad smile that didn't quite touch his eyes. "You know, you're pretty good at this. I take it all back."

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "And what negative remarks have you been making behind my back – of which I was completely unaware – that you suddenly feel the need to take back?"

"You're completely unaware of your _back_?" House teased in a falsely incredulous voice. "How is that even possible? With back like that…"

"House."

He sighed, looking away a bit uncomfortably. "I was referring to remarks I made to your face, actually – or more likely to your boobs, since that's most likely where my attention was focused at the time. Like, about you being a crappy doctor, for example. And… lacking in… motherly instinct."

His last words trailed off awkwardly, and he bit the inside of his lip in a way that made him look very much like a nervous little boy called into the principal's office. Cuddy tried not to show any reaction, schooling her expression into practiced indifference as she shrugged.

"I'm used to you saying the most inappropriate thing possible at the worst possible time…"

"I was wrong."

Cuddy blinked in surprise, no longer able to conceal her reaction. She had thought of House saying those words to her, in this context, several times – had imagined the way it might come about – but never had she expected for a moment that it would actually come to pass. She was caught off guard as much by the tears that filled her eyes, as by the unexpected words. She managed to swiftly cover the tearful, choked sound of her voice with a light laugh.

"That I'm _not _used to," she replied, turning as if to get up off the bed. "Can you wait just a second and let me get my video camera, and then repeat it?"

"_Cuddy_."

His expressive eyes told her how difficult this was for him, and begged her to allow the moment to carry the importance he wanted for it to. He reached out a hand and caught her arm, and she froze. The mirth faded from her face, and she waited breathlessly for him to continue, her heart suddenly, inexplicably pounding with expectation.

House's voice was barely over a whisper when he repeated softly, intently, "I… was wrong. Okay? I… I'm sorry."

Cuddy struggled to maintain her composure, swallowing hard as she nodded slowly, then shook her head in confusion. "Okay. Um… why now?"

"Because you've earned it. And… you never deserved those things I said. Not for a second."

"I've earned it, huh?" Cuddy echoed with a speculative smirk, one eyebrow raised. "Are you _sure_ I've earned it? What about your massive trust issues? How can you be sure I haven't got some ulterior agenda, like everyone you meet apparently has, by _your_ judgment? What makes you think I'm not just being nice so I can take advantage of you in your time of need?"

"Because you could have _already_ taken advantage of me in my time of need – and you didn't."

House returned her smirk as he answered… but then, it slowly faded away, as he shifted closer to her, his hands moving to rest at her hips. Habit told her to push his hands away, to refuse his advances – but instinct refused to let her. Her breath quickened as his eyes trailed between her eyes and her mouth, then back up to meet her eyes again with a hungry gaze.

"But now," he murmured, his voice low and hoarse with desire. "Now… I think I'd like you to…"

The objections Cuddy had that first night seemed far away now. She could hardly remember what they were. "We… we talked about… taking advantage of you… not being sexy…" she reminded him, breathless, struggling to find the words to rebuff him, even as her arms slid around his waist. "We already discussed…"

"Cuddy?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me."

And she couldn't think of an argument convincing enough to combat how _good_ that request sounded.

So she did.


	36. Chapter 36

House sat up suddenly in bed, blinking into the familiar semi-darkness of his bedroom

House sat up suddenly in bed, blinking into the familiar semi-darkness of his bedroom. For some reason, he looked beside him, reaching out a hand for… someone. Someone was supposed to be there.

He just couldn't remember who.

He frowned as he rose to his feet, walking with slow, even steps out his bedroom door and down the hall toward the living room. He was looking for someone, but he didn't know who. He walked into the kitchen, vaguely aware that he should have been limping, should have been in pain – but he was neither.

He sat down at the table, nodding in greeting to Wilson, who was sitting there across from him already.

"I'm waiting for you."

Wilson smiled and shrugged. "I'm right here."

House felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow and loss as he replied, "I'm still waiting."

"You're waiting for something that's gone, House." Wilson's concerned, lecturing tone was painfully familiar, and brought tears to House's eyes to hear it. "Things won't ever be like they were."

"Maybe they can be better."

"Is that optimism I'm hearing?" Wilson's voice was light, teasing. "That's so not like you."

"Well… beating the crap out of your crippled best friend and trying to kill him is so not like _you_." House shrugged. "Guess that makes us about even."

"I might have tried," Wilson pointed out, his expression growing serious. "You're the one who actually accomplished it."

House frowned, shaking his head in protest. "No," he insisted softly. "You're not dead."

"Aren't I?" Wilson's eyebrows were raised in a challenging expression. "That remains to be seen. I'm not out of the woods yet, am I?"

House had no answer for that, and a cold, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He instinctively flinched as Wilson leaned across the table. Sad, dark eyes met House's apprehensive gaze over a cold, angry smile.

"You killed her. You've probably killed me. There's only one thing left for you to do to make things right – even the scale."

Wilson broke House's gaze to look down, and House blinked, startled, before following his eyes to the focus of their attention.

The gun lay between them on the table.

House's hands seemed to move of their own accord, picking up the gun, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Do it," Wilson whispered. "This mess is too big to clean up. Nothing you can do about it now, House. Nothing but end it all. You're almost done. Just finish it. Finish us off."

Strangely, House felt nothing but utter calm as he raised the weapon in both hands and turned its muzzle toward his face. The steel felt smooth and cold in his mouth, as he closed his eyes and placed his finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out in the stillness, and utter silence followed. House opened his eyes – vaguely aware that he shouldn't exactly have _had_ eyes, not after what he had just done – and then froze, staring in horror at the gory nightmare that met his eyes.

Wilson slumped in the chair, the top of his head nothing more than a mangled mess of bloodied, torn flesh and shattered bone. One eye was still intact and visible, but it stared blankly up at the ceiling, glassy and lifeless.

"No…"

House's voice was a hoarse, anguished whisper that roared in his ears as he rose from his chair – and a familiar, searing agony shot through his leg, driving him to his knees beside the destroyed form of his friend. His shaking hands grasped Wilson's legs, shaking him as if to revive him, though he knew better than to think it was possible.

Wilson was gone.

He had tried to destroy himself, because he thought it was what Wilson wanted – but in the process, he had only served to destroy Wilson as well.

Wilson was dead.

And House was the one who had killed him.

"… sorry… please… didn't mean to… please, no…"

Cuddy frowned, shifting in the bed and putting an arm over her ear to shut out the distant, muffled voice that intruded upon her sleep. Some tiny part of her mind registered alarm, telling her that she needed to wake up, needed to listen to the familiar voice that mumbled barely coherent words from just a couple short feet away from her. Something jostled her, knocking her arm away and making the troubled, fearful words clear to her ears again.

"Wilson… no… I didn't mean to! I'm _sorry_!"

The voice broke over the last word, and Cuddy opened her eyes, torn from sleep by the desperation and panic she heard. Realization flooded in all at once, and she sat up with a soft gasp as she remembered.

_House…_

House was lying on his side, his back to her. He was writhing restlessly, but had managed to tangle himself so tightly in the bedclothes that he couldn't really move much – which, of course, only served to amplify his panic.

Cuddy rose up on her elbow, leaning over House to shake his shoulder gently. "House… House, wake up. You're dreaming. _Wake up_, House!"

Finally, he rolled over to face her, eyes wide and bewildered as he stared at her in confusion. He glanced around the room, clearly trying to figure out where he was, and why Cuddy was lying there beside him. Gradually, understanding dawned in his eyes, and he lay back again, rolling his eyes, then closing them with a grimace of embarrassment as his head hit the pillow. He covered his eyes with one hand, clearly uncomfortable with the behavior she had witnessed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean for my utter patheticness to wake you."

"Please," Cuddy scoffed gently with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm used to your patheticness by now."

His expression shifted to an affectionate smile, but he did not remove his hand from his eyes, still unwilling to face her and see the pity he knew would be on her face. Cuddy reached out a gentle hand to rest on his arm, her thumb stroking lightly across his sweat-dampened skin.

"Hey," she murmured, giving him a slight push. "Look at me."

"I've seen you," House carelessly replied. "And in my mental image of you, you have slightly larger breasts and a slightly smaller ass. I think I'll stay here in my mind for a while longer, thanks."

A slight smile crossed Cuddy's face at his good-natured insults. They were strangely reassuring to her – evidence that the old House was still in there somewhere, and would eventually make his full-time appearance again. She ran her hand gently up and down his arm, keeping her tone carefully light as she replied.

"You sure about that? It didn't sound like a very fun place to be a few minutes ago."

House's grimace returned, and he let out a sigh. "What'd I say?"

"Enough to let me know that on some level, you're still thinking this is your fault."

Cuddy paused, allowing her words to sink in as she reached up to take his wrist in a firm but gentle grasp and pull it down away from his eyes. She was relieved and encouraged when House let her, well aware that had he insisted on not facing her, she couldn't have done anything to make him. She waited until his wary blue eyes met hers to go on in a voice of firm conviction.

"It's _not_. You didn't do anything wrong, House."

"I know that," House muttered, stubbornly looking away. He hesitated a moment before admitting in a slightly sullen voice, "Apparently, my subconscious has yet to read the memo."

Cuddy considered a moment before venturing to ask, "What were you dreaming about?"

House drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he replied in a quiet, cautiously neutral voice.

"I dreamed that… I killed him… shot him." He paused a moment, frowning as he reconsidered. "Actually… I shot _myself_. But Wilson was the one who died."

Cuddy smiled, letting out a soft, ironic chuckle. "You know, any one of our staff psychiatrists would have a field day with that…"

"_No_."

"I'm not trying to shove you into therapy," Cuddy assured him with a shrug. "I'm just saying." Her smile faded, her tone becoming soft and serious as she continued, "You didn't kill him, House. For one thing… he's not exactly _dead_. And for another… if he _should_ happen to take a turn for the worse… it's not your fault. You were just defending yourself, House…"

"I know that," House cut her off impatiently. "He was going to kill me. I had to shoot him. I know all that." He paused a moment, adding in a quiet, grim tone, "I'm talking about before that. I… shouldn't have ever let it go that far to begin with. I should have stopped him the first time he…" House sighed, shaking his head. "I should have stopped it."

"He's your friend, House. You thought you were doing what was best for him."

"Yeah." House's troubled gaze was focused on the ceiling, his voice pensive and distracted. "_That_ worked out well."

Cuddy's heart sank as she recognized the subtle note of anger and disgust in his voice, and knew that it was aimed at himself, rather than at the appropriate target for it – Wilson. She was not used to seeing guilt coming from House; and she found that, as much as she had often wished to see it… she didn't like it at all.

"House…" she began in a patient, reassuring tone.

"So." He cut her off briskly, his tone making it clear that the topic was closed, and he was moving on to a new – and to him, much more interesting – subject. "What exactly did we do last night?"

Cuddy sighed, relenting with a reluctant smile as he rose up on his elbow so that he was facing her.

"Basically… made out like a couple of teenagers. That's about it." She gestured downward with a pointed glance as she added, "Note the still-fully-clothed-ness of us."

"Damn."

House's brow creased in a frown, his lips forming a pout that Cuddy couldn't help but find ridiculously tempting. She raised an eyebrow in his direction, giving him a look that was part suspicion, part concern.

"Why don't you remember, anyway?" she asked. "You all right?"

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he replied with false innocence. "You know when you have one of those really realistic dreams… like, _really_ realistic, so much so that you wake up and aren't sure whether you dreamed it or it really happened?"

Cuddy felt her face flush with a strangely pleasant sort of embarrassment as she realized where his explanation was headed. She held up a halting hand, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"Actually… I don't think I want to know."

"Oh, but I think I _want_ you to know," House persisted, shifting in close to her, one hand threading through her messy dark curls and drawing her nearer to him. "Visualize your dreams to make them come to pass, and all that crap," he muttered, a bit breathless, his eyes locked onto her lips. "If I want to _actually_ do more than make out with you, then maybe I should _verbalize_…"

"House…" Cuddy sounded breathless, too, and the soft intensity of her voice drew his eyes up to hers.

"What?" he whispered.

"Enough verbalizing."

She enforced her words by capturing his mouth in a searching kiss, her hands rising to gently push him over onto his back. He responded instantly to her kiss, his hands playing eagerly through her hair and pulling her closer to him. Cuddy shifted so that she was partially on top of him, taking care not to jostle his bad leg.

House's hands slid down her back, coming to rest at her waist, and Cuddy responded in turn, never breaking their kiss as her hands pushed eagerly, almost unconsciously, at the top of his jeans. House's mouth broke away from hers then with a desperate gasp, as his trembling hands came to rest over hers – stilling them.

"Wait," he whispered, raising his head to meet her eyes, his own dark with desire… but uncertain. "What… what do you want… to happen here?"

Frustrated, Cuddy shook her head in bewildered confusion, her answer halting and breathless. "I thought I was making that… pretty damn clear."

"Besides this." House was breathing hard, his eyes troubled as he searched her face for the answer. "_After_ this. What are you going to want _then_?"

"House…" Cuddy hesitated before finally settling on a simple, sincere response. "… all I want is _you_."

He gave her a sad, rueful smile as he replied, "I'm… not sure I can give you that, Cuddy. Not yet. Not in any way but this." His expressive eyes were full of regret as he admitted softly, "I want this… want _you_, Cuddy. But… I don't want you to settle for less than what you deserve… when… when I might not ever be able to… to be what you want me to, for you."

Cuddy weighed her words carefully, searching for the right way to say what she meant, before finally speaking in a soft, earnest voice. "House… I know you're more vulnerable than usual at the moment. I know you can't trust me – can't trust _anyone_ – right now. Maybe not ever." She paused for a moment, before adding with a warm smile and a slow nod, "And I'm okay with that."

He seemed genuinely stunned by her words, his head tilting slightly with a puzzled frown. "Are you… sure I'm not still dreaming?"

Cuddy laughed softly, reaching one hand behind his head to pull him down into a slow, gentle kiss. She pulled away slowly, meeting his eyes for a brief, intense moment before answering.

"You're wide awake," she assured him. "House… all I know is… I care about you. I want you in my life. I want to… to give this a try, if you do. And I want you to know that you can trust me." She paused, taking a deep breath before adding with an understanding smile, "But I'm willing to wait until you're ready on that last one. And in the mean time – we can enjoy what we already have."

"Okay, now I _know_ I'm still dreaming." House gave her a playful smirk as he leaned in for another kiss. "And I _really_ don't want to wake up."


	37. Chapter 37

Breathless from the latest in a series of intense kisses, Cuddy somehow managed to find the presence of mind to reluctantly pull away

Breathless from the latest in a series of intense kisses, Cuddy somehow managed to find the presence of mind to reluctantly pull away. She looked up at House with uncertainty in her troubled, searching blue eyes.

"Are you… _absolutely sure_ you want to do this?"

House blinked at her in momentary disbelief, his eyes somewhat hazy, pupils dilated as he tried to catch his breath. "You're kidding, right?" he finally replied in a dubious tone that quickly became sarcastic. "No, I constantly comment on your breasts and your ass, and come up with almost daily reasons to end up in your office, just because I'm trying so hard to cover up how _disgusting_ I find you."

He rolled his eyes, his tone softening with exasperated affection as he concluded, "_Of course_ I want to do this. I've wanted to for years now." He hesitated a moment. "Do _you_?"

Cuddy's expression softened at the barely veiled insecurity in his suddenly solemn voice and searching, uncertain eyes. She rose up on her elbow, placing her free hand behind his head to draw him in close for a slow, thorough kiss. House's hands were trembling slightly when they sought out her waist, sliding up just slightly under the hem of her blouse, and he hungrily deepened the kiss.

Cuddy only drew away when she couldn't last another moment without oxygen, smiling up at him through slightly dazed, adoring eyes as she whispered breathlessly, "Does it _feel_ like I want to?"

She was gratified to see relief in his eyes as he gave her a playful, self-satisfied smirk and leaned in for another kiss. His hands moved with more purpose, sliding up to unfasten the buttons on her silk blouse. Cuddy's hands were buried in his hair, holding him to her as she kissed him slowly, intently, wanting to take her time and savor this moment that she had secretly wished for, for so long.

House, apparently, had other ideas.

He hurriedly pushed her blouse back off her shoulders, then deftly worked the clasp on the back of her bra. His warm, calloused hands slid over her shoulders, dragging the straps down her arms as his lips trailed from her mouth down her throat to eagerly mouth the swell of her breasts.

Cuddy drew in a sharp breath at the swift onslaught of sensation, her eyes closing, her head falling back for a moment, before she managed to regain some semblance of control, her hands blindly seeking out House's hands, which were already working on the zippered waist of her skirt. She managed to still his efforts for a moment, opening her eyes and catching his questioning gaze.

"What's the hurry?" she murmured gently. "Slow down a minute…"

"Don't wanna slow down," House muttered, reaching toward her skirt again. "Need to forget."

Cuddy's heart ached for him when she heard those words, but she knew that she couldn't yield to the desires they expressed. If she allowed this encounter to be just another distraction for House, just another drug he used to dull the ache of the betrayals and abuse he had endured throughout his life – there would be no chance of it's lasting beyond that night.

And with every touch, with every moment that passed – Cuddy was more certain that she _wanted_ it to last.

"Cuddy," House mumbled her name against her skin as his mouth found the soft skin at the base of her throat again. "Need you… need to forget…"

Gently but firmly, with a bit of an effort, Cuddy managed to push him back again, rolling as she did so that her body pinned him to the mattress. House let out an impatient whine as she held his hands in hers, keeping him from touching her for the moment, as she leaned down to indulge in another slow, tender kiss. She drew back to meet his eyes in a warm, affectionate smile.

"That's ironic," she said softly, glancing downward almost shyly before meeting his eyes again. "I was trying to _remember_."

There was look of startled understanding in House's eyes when he realized what she was talking about, and his expression softened into a gentle, nostalgic smile – a rare look for him, but one that Cuddy immediately decided she'd love to see more of. He freed one of his hands from hers to raise it to her cheek, watching in quiet awe as she leaned into the caress.

"That's one thing I'd _like_ to remember," House agreed in a low, hoarse voice. "It was just… one night…"

"But _such_ a night."

Cuddy finished for him, and they shared a quiet laugh, before falling silent for a moment, each lost in their own memories of a single night nearly twenty years earlier. Cuddy was the first to re-initiate their activities, resting her hands on House's shoulders before running them slowly down his sides.

"You weren't my first," she murmured thoughtfully, punctuating her words with soft, light kisses against his chest. "But you were… my _first_… if you know what I mean."

She followed the confession with a shy smile, meeting his eyes, blushing at the look of pleased surprise on his face when he realized what she meant. She had been uncertain about revealing that particular detail about their encounter, but the look of pride and satisfaction on House's face made it worth it.

"Well…" He shrugged slightly as he slowly unzipped her skirt and slid it down around her hips. "… that's because whoever _came_ before me – and yes, the inappropriate pun is intentional – obviously didn't have the slightest clue what they were doing."

The impact on his self-esteem was almost visible, and Cuddy wondered at the fact that not so very long ago, she sought out opportunities to cut his ego _down_ a bit, rather than to build it up. But Wilson's abuse, and the childhood traumas it had raised to the surface again, had left House in an unusually vulnerable state, unsure of his own self-worth – and now, all she wanted to do was to make him see how much more he deserved.

Her hands followed his, pushing her skirt off with her feet and kicking it off the edge of the bed, as she reached for the buckle of his belt. The blanket was still in between them, so she started to slide it down with his jeans – and was surprised when his hands abruptly stopped hers, holding them in place. She looked up to meet his eyes in a silent question – and was stunned by the sudden apprehension and insecurity she saw there.

"Don't," he whispered, averting his eyes, shaking his head slightly. "Come under here with me… don't…"

Cuddy frowned in confusion. "What…?" She shook her head slightly – and then, her confusion faded into understanding, and a pang of sympathy went through her as she realized what the problem was.

_He doesn't want me to see his leg…_

Sympathy was swiftly followed by guilt, and she swallowed back a hard knot that formed in her throat.

_Like I have a right to mind his scar… He wouldn't have it if it wasn't for me…_

A moment's awkward silence was brought to a timely end as she pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth, her tongue slipping past his slightly parted lips, which gradually yielded to her kiss. She was relieved when she felt the tension slowly ease from House's body, and pulled away for a moment with an affectionate smile, as she reached across to the night table to turn off the light.

She climbed under the covers, snuggling in close to House and thrilling to the feeling of his skin against hers as she renewed her efforts to remove his pants. He helped her, and she felt his hands trembling slightly under hers as she slid them down past his thighs. He kicked them the rest of the way off, his hands sliding around to cup the soft curves of her ass, his lips once again finding her breast.

Cuddy let out a soft moan of pleasure at the contact, her arms wrapping around and drawing him closer to her.

"House," she whispered, a shudder of pleasure shaking through her as his mouth latched onto her nipple, teeth scraping lightly against her sensitive skin before shifting to the other side. "_God_…"

Encouraged by her obvious approval, House slid his right hand down between her legs, expert fingers striking a chord of need and longing within her that she instantly recognized – and all at once, it was as if it had only been days since the last time, rather than the many years that had passed.

House was more restrained than she remembered him, and Cuddy realized with a pang of sad nostalgia that it was because of the way the years had so thoroughly trained him to always conceal his vulnerability. Still, his quiet, muffled groans and suppressed whimpers of pleasure and need told her that she still remembered the way he liked to be touched, the things that turned him on.

Clearly, he remembered just as well.

By the time he asked if she was "ready" – Cuddy was far beyond ready. In fact, she was on the verge of desperation, not sure she could wait another moment. She nodded her consent breathlessly, drawing in a sharp gasp of pleasure as he slid into her, thrusting slowly, drawing out the sensation.

They instantly fell into a natural rhythm that had become familiar to them long ago, moving with each other, perfectly in sync. Each wave crested a little higher, each touch driving them nearer to the edge of oblivion – until finally, they tumbled over the edge, together, in a rush of intense heat and overwhelming sensation.

Feeling drained and breathless, thoroughly sated, Cuddy slid to the side, off of House, leaving her arms wrapped around him as she rested her head on his shoulder. He was gasping, eyes closed, struggling to catch his breath, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, silently drawing her closer to him, and she felt a rush of soft warmth at the unexpectedly tender gesture.

"Now _that_ was definitely worth remembering."

Perhaps it was his simple, affectionate touch, or the touch of something beyond simple admiration she heard in his voice, that inspired Cuddy's next words, but before she knew she was going to say them, they had slipped out in a gentle near-whisper.

"Out of all the affairs I've had, in college and since… you're the _only_ one that was ever worth remembering."

She felt House freeze for a moment at her side… then slowly relax again, and she knew that his reaction was one of sheer surprise, that she would think so highly of their brief time together so long ago.

That she would think so highly of _him_.

A sense of determination seized her, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes, touched by the awe and uncertainty she saw there – as if he barely dared to believe that she could possibly have meant what she'd just said.

_Time to see if I can change that._

"You know… I think ever since that time… I've always compared anyone I've been with… to you," she confessed softly, smiling when his eyes widened in surprise and disbelief. "Even when I haven't been willing to admit it, House," she continued hesitantly, "you're the most fascinating, intriguing, _amazing_ man I've ever known… and… as hard as I've tried… I've never met anyone else who could compare."

"Amazing, huh?" he echoed dubiously, a single brow raised, his voice low and cautious.

She nodded. "In fact… the only way you could be any more amazing…" She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself before plunging forward. "…would be… if you _knew_ it."

House let out a quiet scoff. "Right." His voice held a note of quiet irony. "I thought we'd firmly established the fact that my ego knows no bounds. It's the one thing you love about me."

He gave her his trademark smirk, using techniques perfected over years of painful experience in concealing his emotions. In fact, those methods had worked on Cuddy more times than she wanted to think about.

But she wasn't buying it – not this time.

She leaned forward slowly, holding his gaze as long as she could, bringing her lips to his in a tender kiss, before pulling back and speaking in a soft, intimate whisper, words she never would have thought she'd venture to speak to House.

"There's a _lot_ of things I love about you."

A sense of complete vulnerability accompanied the words, and Cuddy lowered her head to his chest, finding herself unable to face him in the wake of her confession, for fear of seeing his usual mockery in his eyes, having her words thrown back in her face in the most hurtful and humiliating way possible.

When House did not move or speak for several moments, Cuddy cringed inwardly, preparing herself for the worst.

Then, she felt a slight hitch in his breath, heard the shaking sound of his slow exhale, and knew that he was struggling to control his own emotions. When she felt his hand slowly, tentatively stroke her hair, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief, knowing that she had made the right decision in sharing her sentiments with him – even if he wasn't able to share them back quite yet.

In the morning, neither of them would remember who fell asleep first – but both would forever remember the feeling of security and peace and safety that followed them, as they drifted off in the shelter of each other's arms.


	38. Chapter 38

When House awakened the next morning – in an inexplicably peaceful, pleasant mood – it took him a moment to remember where he was… and a moment more to remember why

When House awakened the next morning – in an inexplicably peaceful, pleasant mood – it took him a moment to remember where he was… and a moment more to remember why.

And abruptly, the sense of peaceful euphoria faded away into an anxious, unsettled feeling.

_I shot Wilson… He's in the hospital… maybe dying…_

He rolled over in the bed, feeling strangely bereft when he realized that he was alone in it. He would have expected to feel a sense of relief at not having to face Cuddy for what could have been a painfully awkward, uncomfortable morning; instead, he found himself wondering why she'd left without saying anything, and wishing she was still there.

_Pathetic… such a pathetic, ridiculous thought…_

However, his analysis of his own reactions lacked the venom it might have held any other morning. He let out a soft, ironic laugh, shaking his head as he sat up and started to get out of bed. He froze when his eyes fell on a folded sheet of paper on the night table, with his name written on it. He picked it up, unfolding it and reading the words written there, in Cuddy's neat, feminine handwriting.

_House__ Greg,_

_Had to go to work, and check on Wilson. Sleep as long as you like, and stay as long as you want when you get up. Eat anything you like, I'll go shopping after work. Don't worry about coming in at all today, you need your rest. __Give me a call when you__ We'll talk later, when I get __home__back to the apartment__ home._

_Cuddy__ Lisa_

He couldn't help but smile as he analyzed the thoughts and rethoughts that had clearly gone into the brief message. He pictured her, sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully measuring each word of her simple missive. He folded the note up again and set it on the bedside table, grimacing as he tried to remember where he'd left his cane – then noticed it, leaning against the edge of the nightstand. His smile widened slightly with affection and gratitude.

_Thanks, Cuddy…_

Despite his gratitude, however, he had no intention of taking advantage of the hospitality she had offered. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was just past nine. House rose from the bed, a bit more slowly than usual due to his soreness from the fight with Wilson. He gathered his clothes from the night before and got dressed, stopping on his way out the bedroom door to tuck Cuddy's note into the pocket of his shirt. He didn't stop for coffee or breakfast, just quickly finished getting ready and headed for the door.

He had a very specific mission to accomplish.

**************************

He avoided the busy, well-trafficked entrance into the clinic, instead choosing a less popular side entrance only a few feet from an elevator. The elevator carried him to the floor he selected, which was usually fairly quiet this time of the morning. He was relieved to reach his destination without impediment, apparently unrecognized by any of the handful of people who had passed him in the hall – mostly family members of patients.

The police guard at the door, however, posed a slightly greater problem – but nothing that a spare lab coat from the supply closet couldn't solve. The police would surely not allow a random civilian into the room, especially if they realized that said civilian was the victim of the man they were guarding.

One of the suspect's physicians, however – well, that was a different matter entirely.

House nodded to the officers, breezing past them into the room before they could notice anything out of the ordinary, closing the door behind him. He drew the blinds, then took in a deep, steadying breath and turned to face the bed.

A swift rush of mingled emotions assailed him at the sight of Wilson, sleeping in the hospital bed, appearing far more frail and helpless and vulnerable than he had the last time House had seen him. His face was bruised, his lip split from the fight, and House couldn't help but feel a slight sense of pride at the knowledge that despite his disadvantage, he had clearly held his own.

Pride, however, was far outweighed by guilt and grief for all they had lost.

He swallowed back his emotions, squaring his shoulders and steeling himself to do what he had come here to do. Picking up Wilson's chart from the tray at the foot of his bed, he scanned it quickly as he made his way to the IV stand beside the bed. Carefully, he adjusted the dial on the morphine being pumped into Wilson's veins, turning it down gradually, watching Wilson's face for any sign of a reaction.

The bullet had punctured a lung, and Wilson had required emergency surgery to repair it in order to save his life, and a breathing tube to spare the damaged organ any unnecessary effort while it was healing. He had also needed a transfusion to replace the blood he had lost, and enough morphine to help him sleep through the worst of the pain, until he was recovered enough to be taken into custody by the police.

However, House didn't want Wilson asleep at the moment.

After a few moments, Wilson's face twitched, his brow furrowing, as he let out a quiet groan of pain. House waited until Wilson's eyes opened, looking up at him with a dull expression of pain and confusion, before dialing the morphine up again, just a little – just enough to ease the pain, without sending Wilson back into unconsciousness.

"Morning," he remarked flatly, not meeting Wilson's eyes as he took an instinctive step backward, away from the bed. "Time to wake up. I need you conscious for the next few minutes… but there's no reason that you should suffer during those few minutes." He frowned, reconsidering, before amending, "Well… there _is_ a _reason_… but I still don't want you to, believe it or not."

He was quiet a moment, forcing himself to meet Wilson's eyes, taking in the gradual recognition and understanding in his slowly sharpening gaze. Wilson's eyes were wary, fearful, watching House's movements as he paced slowly at the foot of the bed.

"The breathing tube's a nice touch, though," House continued quietly, unable to suppress a slight smirk of satisfaction that was justified, if a bit cruel. "Gives me a chance to have my say without being interrupted… or having the shit kicked out of me."

His smile swiftly faded, his voice becoming somber and starkly honest.

"I'm sorry. I've told you that before, several times, and I don't think you believed me… but I'll say it just this last time, and then… well, what you choose to believe is up to you. _I'm. Sorry_. Sorry about Amber… sorry you lost her. I… I know it hurts, and… and it hurts me, too… for you…"

He swallowed hard, wincing at the unaccustomed openness and vulnerability of the words. He looked up at Wilson again through lowered eyes, watching closely for any reaction, as he softly continued.

"But it wasn't my fault. And… I think you know that. I think you've always known it. Yeah, you've gone out of your way for me a lot over the last ten years. You've done more for me than you should have… more than I probably deserved. But… you _chose_ to do those things, Wilson. I didn't force you. No one did. When… when Amber died… you couldn't stand it, because… because you thought it was _your_ fault."

House looked away, blinking back unbidden tears of sympathy at the wince of pain in Wilson's eyes – pain that he knew was not physical.

"It wasn't," he clarified, his voice low and husky with repressed emotion. "It wasn't your fault… but you blamed yourself, because of… because of the choices you'd made. Because you were always there for me, even when you shouldn't have been… and if you hadn't been… I never would have called you that night."

He was quiet a moment, allowing the words to sink in for both of them.

"You haven't been punishing me for Amber. You blamed yourself for that. No… this has been about the past ten years. About all the other things you've done for me that you shouldn't have had to, and all the things I've cost you, or almost cost you. You've been punishing me for our whole _friendship_, Wilson. All the things that have bothered you for the last ten years, all rolled into one colossal explosion of frustration and anger – and it almost killed us both."

Wilson was watching him closely, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, his cuffed wrists jerking uselessly against the sides of the bed. The expression in his bleary, red-rimmed eyes was inscrutable, and House couldn't tell whether he was trying to get to him to shut him up, as he'd done so many times during the last few weeks, or just trying to escape the painful truth of House's words.

Either way, he was out of luck.

This time, Wilson was the one with no escape.

"Thing is…" House went on in a voice of practiced calm, eyes lowered momentarily before focusing sharply on Wilson's face again. "… you've caused your fair share of damage, yourself – and I'm not talking about the last few weeks." He paused, drawing in a deep breath. "I can't count the times you've whispered and plotted behind my back – with Cuddy, with Tritter…" House watched closely, gauging Wilson's reaction as he continued cautiously.

"… with Stacey…"

Wilson's flinch, his suddenly averted gaze, was all the answer House needed to a question ten years old. A grim smile formed on his lips, his shoulders slumping with disappointment as he nodded once in resigned acceptance.

"You knew," he stated quietly. "I thought you might have. She wouldn't have made a decision of that much importance without discussing it with you." His voice softened, tinged with hurt and betrayal, as he confessed, "I'm… not sure I want to know… what advice you gave her. What your… opinion was. All that matters is that you… you didn't warn me. Didn't tell me what was going to happen. Let her go behind my back and… and…"

House shook his head, his words trailing off as his throat closed up, and he lowered his head again, raising a hand to his eyes momentarily before rolling them heavenward with a bitter, painful laugh.

"You know… all this time, you've done your best to make me feel like I was so… so irreparably screwed up that you shouldn't have even wasted your time. Our friendship is an… ethical responsibility. That's what you said, isn't it? The saintly Dr. Jimmy Wilson, doing the right thing by the damaged, miserable, _worthless_ Dr. House, who didn't deserve the incredible _honor_ of his friendship. But you've stabbed me in the back, more than once. You've betrayed my trust… again and again. You even went so far as to take the things you knew about my childhood… my family… things I told you in confidence, and _never_ told _anyone_ else… and use those things against me… use them to control me and manipulate me… and I… I've _overlooked_ it… because…" His voice lowered to a whisper as he came to a shameful realization even as he spoke. "… because… I didn't think I could do any better. I didn't think I deserved you."

House was silent for a moment, glancing up to Wilson's eyes, which were studiously averted. Wilson had gone very still in the bed, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, very deliberately resisting showing any reaction to House's monologue. House's next words, however, spoken with a cold smile of bitter irony, caused a distinctly visible flinch, as they struck their mark with deadly accuracy.

"You know, I think I can say in all honesty, Wilson… I _really _don't deserve your _friendship_."

House turned and headed back toward the door, opening the blinds again in preparation to leave. He knew that the police outside would just assume he'd closed them for the patient's privacy, for some procedure he'd needed to perform, and wouldn't suspect what had really taken place inside this room. At the door, he turned before opening it, somewhat disappointed when Wilson still refused to look at him.

"On the other hand," he relented slightly, his voice soft and sad, but not without a heavy dose of irony. "I never should have put up with it. Maybe if I hadn't… _enabled_ your _addiction_… things wouldn't have gotten to this point. In a way, it's… my fault as much as yours."

He hesitated, a soft smile touching his lips as he spoke. "I'd… like to think that, once you get out of… whatever prison or mental hospital they send you to, you might regret all this, and I could forgive you… and we could be friends again." His smile faded, a dull finality in his eyes as he spoke the last words he would speak to the man who had been his friend, his confidante, and almost… his destroyer.

"Too bad I'm a realist."

He walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him – without seeing Wilson's dark gaze turn back toward the empty doorway, or the silent tears that streaked his stricken, anguished face.


	39. Epilogue

When House walked out of Wilson's hospital room, he told himself that it didn't matter whether or not his words had hit their mark. Wilson's opinion of him no longer mattered. He had said what he needed to say, and how Wilson received it was of no consequence to him.

He kept telling himself that when Wilson called him from jail.

He was stunned when the operator informed him in a cool monotone that she had a call for him from "Jimmy Wilson", and hesitated a few moments, uncertain – before reminding himself that he did not care anymore. Wilson was no longer a part of his life.

He refused the call.

He refused the next one, as well.

After all, he had no idea what Wilson's motive might be for calling him. A part of him – the same part that still woke up in a cold sweat, biting back a scream, every other night or so – was certain that Wilson could only be calling to make further threats and accusations and harassments. Another part of him – the part that ached for the friendship that had been lost months ago – wondered if perhaps there was another motive for the calls.

Was it possible that Wilson was sorry for what he'd done, and wanted to try to make things right? It was highly unlikely, he knew; and even if that _was_ the case – House wasn't sure he was quite ready for that. If Wilson apologized, he really had no idea what he would say.

Still… a cold ache settled in his stomach, every time he declined another call from Wilson.

During the week and a half that passed between Wilson's arrest, and his final arraignment, Cuddy spent nearly every night at House's apartment – and the ones she didn't, he spent at hers.

House wasn't really sure what it was that was happening between them, or how long it could possibly last. He didn't want to think about those things. All he knew was that _right then_, she was able to offer him something that he desperately needed, some nameless _something_ that he couldn't quite put his finger on – but he knew that he _needed_ it.

So, as long as she was offering, he would accept it.

Painful experience had taught him against being reckless with his heart, and he tried his best to keep his walls up, not to allow himself to invest too much in their gradually deepening relationship. Still, despite his best efforts, every now and then he caught himself indulging a flash of unexpected soft emotion, when Cuddy would look at him in just a certain way, or speak to him with a certain subtle tenderness she couldn't quite conceal.

After all – she was being cautious with _her_ heart, too.

Both of them were stunned when the district attorney approached House and informed him that Wilson wished to enter a guilty plea, in a deal that would allow him to be admitted to an inpatient mental institution instead of prison, until he was deemed safe to be returned to society, in exchange for his accepting the full responsibility for the abuses he had committed against his friend.

House gave his approval of the arrangement, though he tried not to put too much stock in Wilson's agreement to a guilty plea.

_He's just doing it to avoid jail_, he told himself. _It doesn't mean he's really sorry_.

But on the day of the arraignment, there was no mistaking the quiet regret in Wilson's soft, humble voice as he gave his plea, then cast a sorrowful, guilty glance in House's direction. He couldn't hold the gaze of his former friend – soft, dark eyes almost immediately averted – but House repressed the desire he felt to go to him, to talk to him before the court officers led him away.

He wasn't quite ready to acknowledge Wilson's guilt and regret – not yet.

_But… someday… maybe…_

He had more than enough to worry about, just trying to recover from the physical and emotional trauma of the abuses he'd endured.

But at least, for once, he _was_ dealing with them.

_I suppose I've actually got Wilson to _thank_ for that. Never would have faced up to any of these things… never would have found the courage to do _this_ at all… if it wasn't for him…_

The strangely ironic thought crossed House's mind, four months after Wilson's admission to the psychiatric facility, as he picked up the telephone and dialed his mother's phone number. It was the first day of December, and he supposed it was a good time to call. After all, most normal people made their holiday plans well in advance.

"Hello?" There was clear surprise in his mother's voice. "Greg?"

"Two questions," he replied without greeting or hesitation, taking a deep breath before launching forward. He had a feeling these two questions would have a tremendous impact on his life in the days ahead.

"What time do you want me to show up on Christmas? And… can I bring a date?"


End file.
